Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow, Yuna Hollander, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Mostly Gen, Interviews, News Media, Smart!Ilya - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-27 Updated: 2026-03-30 Words: 14,797 Chapters: 11/?

The Interview

Summary

Several years into Rozanov’s career, ESPN hires a reporter fluent in Russian.

Suddenly able to answer questions fluently and with a wide vocabulary, Rozanov’s interviews go viral. Hockey fans around the world get a new look at what they thought about Boston’s #81. This changes not only his public persona, but his whole life.

Inspired by the look on NBA star Nikola Jokić’s face when he was asked a question in his native Serbian and my own struggles learning a new language.

Notes

Fair warning I know nothing about Russian or Russian culture… or hockey.

IMPORTANT In this fic, Italics will represent *english* not Russian, to maybe further illustrate Rozanov’s perspective.

• Translation into Русский available: Интервью by Fandom_Mouse

Chapter 1: New Hire

Rozanov tapped his foot, bored. Flashes of light go off again, as if he and his team changed in the last fifteen seconds since they last took photos.

Interviews after every game. Boring. Predictable. The effort to *English* after spending the last three hours on the ice or watching his teammates on the ice is monumental. It felt like a greater workout than any actual workout, as his brain was already exhausted.

A reporter lobbed another question to Rozanov’s side ”Marlow, how would you characterize your team’s performance today?”

Not directed to him, Ilya let out an internal sigh and rocked back on his chair. No English for him yet.

Marlow let out a stream of inane babble that is in no way important. Ilya counted down the minutes until this was over.

“Rozanov, same to you,” the same reporter said. Shit! What was the question? Ilya thought hard to recall and used a sentence he knew always gets a laugh.

“Was great. As usual,” Ilya said simply. Predictably, this gets a heartfelt chuckle out of the crowd. Rozanov being his usual self.

Then, out in the crowd, a second question for Rozanov.

“People in Russia were watching the game (in the middle of the night), what can you tell us about the game? It was a very important win, first one in New York this season, important in terms of score as psychologically as well?”

Ilya blinks and shakes his head, disbelieving. A question in Russian? For him? The people of Russia stayed up all night to watch him play?

It took him so long to respond, he feels clumsy in Russian as well as English. But this time the answer comes easily to him.

“Thank you for the message that people in Russia are awake and are watching the game, I'd like to thank them. The game was very important for us, we returned the break they made last game. We controlled the whole game, once we got it we never lost the lead. The bench was great, they brought us victory.”

The reporter smiled, thanked him, and said “The people of Russia are proud of you,” and resumed his seat. The whole crowd looks at him, suddenly woken up from the humdrum of a normal post game interview. Rozanov had answered a question, not only in his native Russian, but also a longer answer than any he has given to any question before.

Ilya cannot help it, he is grinning a silly smile. Hollander says that this smile makes him look ten years younger, and still he grins, hiding it behind a hand, fooling no one.

To his side, Marlow claps him across the side, happy for his friend, despite not understanding.

The rest of the interview doesn’t matter. Lights fade and the English speaking lowers to a dull roar. Even if it was one reporter, one flattering interview question, it meant everything to him.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had told him they were proud of him in his mother tongue.

***

After the next practice, Wheeler came up to him in the locker room. Ilya frowned. Despite practice being over, Wheeler had no business in the locker room, evidenced by his crutches.

Is he gearing up for a fight? Ilya wondered. Always his first instinct. Always assuming someone has found fault with him. If so, it is strange to send a man on crutches.

Hey, captain.” Wheeler said, a respectable distance away. “Just wanted to say thank you for your comments about the bench during the last post game interview. Meant a lot to us, those who couldn’t be out there with you, but were rooting for you.”

Ilya had always liked Wheeler. Fast on his skates, he always brings his all to practice. And when Wheeler had a minor fracture due to a collision with a SF player a few weeks ago, he continued to bring his all to the bench.

Ilya stared, confused. When had he said…?

“I watched the translated interview afterwards,” Wheeler said. “ I’ll admit, we were all curious as to what you’d said because we’d never given such a long answer before. It was nice."

Okay now Wheeler had overstepped with his touchy American nonsense. “No problem. Was true.” he responded.

He missed the look exchanged by his fellow teammates in the locker.

***

The next game, it happens again.

Ilya recognized the voice, deep and accented. It must be southern Russian, with its coarse approach and Ukrainian lilt. Raised in Moscow by an officer, Ilya has always been told he talked like an older gentleman. This was not generally a complement.

“Captain Rozanov, Boston is headed to the playoffs after an incredible blowout against New Jersey today. Can you tell us what allowed you to get by their goalkeeper again and again?”

An astute question. Ilya examined this reporter.

“Well,” he started. “I should not like to share all my secrets. Perhaps New Jersey should simply accept they are no match for Boston.”

“They’re out of the playoffs after today,” the reporter countered. “Surely you could tell us your secret to scoring today? They’ll have all of the off-season to review the footage.”

Ilya grinned like mad. This reporter had correctly deduced that there was a secret to the game today, but couldn’t figure out what it was. Perhaps he shouldn’t share how he got such an advantage, but couldn’t resist showboating, especially when he could do it so elegantly.

“Firstly, I noticed that last week, the NJ goalkeeper had an injury on his left side. It was a bruise, slightly raised,” Ilya raised his hands to gesture for the spot, near his eye. “His peripheral vision was therefore a bit narrower than normal.”

The reporter nods.

Ilya continued. “Secondly, on his left side, was a rookie straight out of Coach Brightly’s seasonal camp in Vancouver. Players coming out of there are notorious for having a weaker defense on their non-dominant side.

“This combined made it easy to pass to my talented teammate,” Ilya nods to the man in question, “Who has both a skilled eye and a killer shot. All these factors combined made it simple to skate circles around the New Jersey goalie.”

The reporter nodded. He has no expression. Why would he? He is Russian.

The teammate Ilya referenced only blinks at him.

The crowd murmurs at what could have warranted such a long response, but is left wanting. Ilya does not elaborate in English.

His heart was pounding as if he had run a mile. Is this why his teammates say interviews are sometimes fun? Is it because occasionally you are asked a perfect question and get to demonstrate your absolute mastery of the material?

No matter.

Another question for Ilya, this time in English.

“Rozanov, can you tell us what technique you used against the New Jersey goalkeeper?”

Ilya grinned. “I already answer question. Goalie sucked. Rookie sucked. Bears win again. No surprise..

The reporter rolls his eyes but dutifully sits back down.

***

Marlow stands next to him on the ice, balanced on the low wall. They’re watching some of the new members take shots on goal as a warmup for their third string goalie.

“I watched your interview”, Marlow said to him. “I didn’t know that about people coming out of Coach Brightley's camp in Vancouver. How did you even hear about it?”

Ilya startled. Who the fuck rewatched their own trashy post game interview? Much less to simply hear a translation of an offhand comment his captain made.

“I don’t hear,” Ilya said. “I know. I watch,” he gestured with the universal sign of watching, swinging two fingers from his eyes to the ice and then back. “And use my fucking brain. All Vancouver kids, no other coaches in the area. Shitty defense on weak side. Smith, Lyle, Kent, all Vancouver. All shit. Is obvious.

Ilya frowns back at the players on the ice. He feels Marlow staring at him.

“Do you notice those sorts of things about everyone? Like, do you have an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone who has ever hit their ice and their weaknesses, or something?” Marlow laughs nervously. “I mean, it sounds like you go fucking Sherlock Holmes on every play before it ever even happens.”

Ilya didn’t know half of those references but decided it couldn’t be that important. “Of course I do. It is why I am best at hockey and the rest of you…” he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Play at hockey. You don’t think.” he taps his temple aggressively. “Game happens up here. I say this all the time. No one listen to me.”

Marlow is looking at him carefully. As if he has never seen him before.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess we haven’t been.”

***

When Ilya gets the call next week from his agent about a full length interview in Russian, he feels Marlow’s eyes staring at him.

But for once, someone wasn’t staring at him out of fear, or hatred, or even lust.

It was wonder.

Chapter 2: USSR

Chapter Notes

His agent had told him to answer honestly.

“Fans have never seen you so engaged and so real as those two sound bites, Rozanov. They’re hungry for more of the real you.”

Ilya had noted that maybe his agency would not appreciate a fully raw look into Ilya's psyche, but his agent had promised that they would edit anything truly problematic before publishing.

So now he’s sitting in a well lit room in a comfortable leather chair, staring at his interviewer.

“Mr. Rozanov, thank you for coming in,” the interviewer said.

“Anything to make my agent happy,” Ilya responded simply. His agent wanted honesty? He was going to get it.

His interviewer was a tall, slender woman with a bright shock of blue hair. Everything about her features was Slavic, except this, and he couldn’t help but stare. American born Russian? He couldn’t place the accent. Belarus?

To his gratification, his interviewer laughed.

“So, Mr. Rozanov. You were born in Moscow in 1991. You moved to the US when you were 18.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow. “Not a very thrilling first question. If we are looking for light reading material, we could also skim my Wikipedia page.” This last part is said in a distinctly American affect.

“1991 is the same year as the dissolution of the Soviet Union. You lived in the capital. Your father was an officer. How do you think this affected your upbringing?”

Jesus. Ilya blinked. He had subtly accused her of pulling her punches but then he went straight for the juglar. Very Russian. He cannot help himself from nodding in approval.

“Well,” Ilya started. “I do not remember Russia during the Union. But I do know that Russia went from the center of a world superpower to the capital of a struggling federation. The effects were palatable for every aspect of life. Food, water, electricity, everyone said things were different before. Moscow especially, because politics has a hand in everything, has changed. Crime, the mafia, inflation, the collapse of the welfare state…” Ilya shakes his head. “None of it was easy.

“But that was all I knew. Heating came on for an hour every day if you were lucky, even where I lived next to the politicians' homes. I didn’t pay much attention, to be candid. I was a child, playing hockey. Things were hard, the world was cold, you were Russian. Nothing new under the sun.”

The interviewer nodded. “The collapse of the USSR was hard on everyone, rich or poor.”

“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “Where were you? Belarus?”

She smiled. “Yes, I suppose my accent gives it away. But my family moved to the United States when I was twelve, so I was shielded from most of the fallout.

“You were seventeen when you came to North America the first time,” she continued. “For hockey. Was this the first time you had been out of Russia?”

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“How many years of English language schooling did you have before coming here to compete?”

“I studied hockey. Not English. If I was awake and not eating, I was playing hockey.”

The interviewer smiled at him. “Just give us a rough estimate.”

Ilya sighed. “English language instruction post the collapse of the Union was… controversial at best.” He shrugged. “All the young people wanted to learn the ‘international language’. The infrastructure to support so many students all at once didn’t exist. I never paid much attention to all that."

“You’d think the parents of a son wanting to go into a professional, international sport would prioritize something like that, even if the son was focused on hockey.”

“It was understood I was to play for the KHL. Not the NHL.”

“Understood by whom?”

Ilya felt caught. Trapped. He couldn't talk about his father here. His larger than life, overbearing father who lost his identity with the collapse of the Union. Who hated that he left Russia, left his family, left his dignity behind.

“I do not wish to speak about it.” His tone made this clear.

“Did your parents come with you when you competed in North America for the first time?”

“My mother is dead,” Ilya snapped. “Please refrain from asking me any more questions on this matter.”

“Okay,” the interviewer said softly. “I won’t ask. But I think we all can acknowledge moving to a new country with a new language with no family to support you would be hard for anyone, much less an eighteen year old suddenly pushed into the spotlight.”

Ilya stared at her, unblinking. How dare she accuse him of weakness? Of being incapable? He had handled it just fine. He had a dozen expensive sports cars, a penthouse apartment, food, heat, and electricity every day. He was the most famous man in the hockey world. He had done just fucking fine, English skills be damned.

He gritted his teeth together. A comment like that would deserve a punch to the face on the ice. He pressed his thumb and forefinger together, barely restrained.

***

The Bears are crowded around the TV in Marlow’s apartment.

They hadn’t exactly… told their captain that they were all meeting there. But really, the two brief questions he had answered had shocked the team. They had no idea Rozanov thought so deeply about the game. Yes, they had known he was a once in a generation talent, but Roz presented it like it was raw, animalistic power, not a studied, knowing approach.

So here they were. Watching the interview with English closed captions.

The ESPN logo comes on and the commercials play.

The first one to speak is Wheeler. “What’s the USSR?”

“Jesus Christ,” Hardy responded. “Have you never read a book before?”

“I’m just asking!”

“I didn’t know he grew up like that,” Marlow said. “In Moscow. I thought he was some spoiled little rich boy.”

“I think even spoiled little rich boys had a tough time in Moscow in the 90’s,” Hardy said.

“Yeah,” Marlow said. “And what’s that shit about him not supposed to come play for the NHL?”

“Remember when his dad died? Maybe that’s got something to do with it?”

“Fuck man, I feel like such a piece of shit. We don’t know the most basic shit about this guy.”

“I still don’t know what the USSR is.”

“Shut up, Wheeler.”

Chapter End Notes

Me to me: be normal. This is a fic about two hockey players fucking

Also me: and how did the fall of the USSR affect the psyche of these player?

Chapter 3: Social Issues

Chapter Notes

“What did you find different about playing in the NHL as compared to playing in Russia?”

“Well, one is a professional league. And the other was for children. That would be the main detail.”

The interviewer smiled.

“What about social differences? After all, Russia is very different in terms of equal rights and progressivism . Do you find the NHL supports those ideals?”

Ilya scoffed. “Such as supporting women? It’s an all male league.”

The interviewer shifted in her chair. Ilya had surprised her, he realized. That was supposed to be an easy question, to give him a break from his childhood.

She arched an eyebrow. “So you don’t find the NHL to be supportive of a more progressive worldview than the one you were raised with?” She used the English word. Russian did not have a clean equivalent.

Ilya shook his head. “It’s an absurd question with a simplistic premise. You talk as if any institution has any goals other than accumulating money or power. In Russia, we know this. We do not have the issue of assuming anyone is looking out for us other than our own selves.”

“Expand on that.”

Ilya sighed. Well, his agent did want honesty. They could always edit this part out later.

“The NHL is an institution that pays men ridiculous amounts of money to play games in order to sell tickets, merchandise, and advertisements. It is not more complicated than that. Anything that interferes with the money machine will be eliminated. Anything that contributes to it will be supported. Simple.”

“You brought up women. Do you find the NHL’s treatment of players accused of domestic violence to be in line with their purported values?”

Ilya couldn’t even parse which incident she was referring to, it happened so often. An NHL player rapes a women? Drugs her drink? Beats his wife? He could list five off the top of his head right now. None of them received any professional consequences.

“I don’t find it surprising,” Ilya said diplomatically. “It all comes down to money.”

“And how did the NHL’s reaction to Scott Hunter coming out influence your perception of the league?”

“Scott Hunter is a million years old and terrible at hockey. However, I respect what he did.”

“You haven’t spoken about this topic publicly, and I’ll admit your fans are curious about your reaction.”

“I am still a Russian citizen, and am therefore not capable of commenting on this matter further. Let’s just say if he had pulled that stunt in Moscow, he would no longer be with us.”

“Still a Russian citizen? Are you planning on applying for American citizenship?”

“No comment.”

“Do you find Russia's laws restrict your ability to comment on social issues, even overseas?”

“No comment.” He’d said enough. He feels fear tricking up his spine. The definition of “gay propaganda” was so vague…

He looked at the interviewer, imploring her to understand. This was his life she was playing with.

***

“Huh,” one of the Bears, Bradshaw, nodded at the screen. “I always thought he hated the gays, the way he’s always going on about Scott Hunter.”

“Dude, he does hate the gays, that’s what he just said,” Wheeler said.

Bradshaw turned to Wheeler. “What? Did we watch the same interview or did you get your fucking bell rung too many times?”

“He can’t fucking comment because he’ll lose his goddamn citizenship,” Hardy said. “Russia has laws about this fucking stuff, man.”

“Christ,” Wheeler said. “Tough. Is he a communist? Is that why he was going off on the NHL money stuff?”

“Lord give me strength,” Hardy said.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for supporting my niche interest in the USSR’s affect on love. Now welcome to American media and their perception of a person who literally legally cannot comment on social issues.

Chapter 4: Russian villain

Chapter Notes

Silence rung in the interview room. Ilya won’t answer any more questions until she picks a new subject.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Rozanov? People have often accused you of being a womanizer.”

“Not an accusation if it is true. When I was younger, I often had relations with many beautiful, wonderful women. We always ended on good terms. But that is in the past now.”

“So that’s a yes to the girlfriend?”

“Let’s keep private things private.”

“So there is someone?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss. I think you would understand if a woman was involved with me, she should like her privacy.”

“Because of your reputation.”

“Perhaps.”

They stare at each other, in the hard, cold, menacing way the Slavic people have perfected.

***

“Since when has Roz got a girl, man?”

“I don’t know.” Marlow shook his head. “I thought it was impossible.”

“Oh fuck,” Bradshaw said. “What about that girl he’s always texting? The Montreal girl? What’s her name? Jade?”

“Yeah yeah yeah, Jade,” Marlow clicks his fingers. “Didn’t realize they were uh- going steady?”

“It’s Rozanov,” Wheeler said. “Not sure anything is exactly steady with that guy.”

***

“Let’s talk about you, and your brand. The way you debuted.”

“My favorite topic,” Ilya smiled.

“Eighteen years old, away from home, the NHL’s #1 draft pick, signing for an unheard of amount of money in Boston. How did that go?”

“It was excellent. As you just said.”

“Did you have a lawyer who spoke Russian and English when you signed that paperwork?”

Silence.

“I handled it just fine, thank you.”

The interviewer backed off. “Media interviews immediately afterwards have described you as curt, abrasive, rude, and deeply Russian. Does that sound accurate?”

“Ah, you Americans. You always find TV and movies to be more real than your own perceptions. Always believing anything you see on TV.”

“So it doesn’t sound accurate?”

“Does it matter?” Ilya said. “They pay me an absurd amount of money to play a game. I maintain the image they have in mind for me. Everyone is satisfied.”

“I think it would hurt my feelings if the world thought I was a mindless brute simply because I was struggling to answer questions in my second language,” she said, closing in for the kill.

“People see what they want to see,” Ilya said simply. “They find a one in a generation talent coming out of the heart of Russia, they find a way to market it. As I said before, it is an industry like any other. My image is a commodity and I have a vested interest in maintaining it.”

“Do you think the media would paint you as such an aggressor if you weren’t Russian? After all, a lot of American media features mindless Russian or German villains.”

“Again, it doesn’t matter. I do have an aggressive play style. I do like to drive fast cars, meet beautiful women, and I always dominate in any game I play. In the American storytelling tradition, this makes me the villain.”

“And in a Russian tradition?”

“Russians don’t have heroes. We have bad. And worse.”

“So it doesn’t bother you.”

“Ask any NHL player if they find their public persona matches their true perception of themselves. Better yet, ask their wives. It’s part of the job.”

“Do you ever find that you struggle to answer media questions because they’re in English?”

“I may not be able to answer questions subtly but I do not believe anyone could accuse me of not answering them completely.”

She nodded. And turned to her next page of notes.

***

“Sounds like he’s doing it on purpose?” Hardy comments. “The scary Russian act?”

“I don’t think he has a choice,” Marlow said. “Read between the lines. If he wanted to stay here in Boston and play hockey, Roz had to learn to play the real game.”

***

“Shane, honey, come take a look at this,” Yuna said. “Rozanov’s doing an interview. In Russian.”

Shane stopped. Stared at the TV. The same Russian musicality washed over him. He hadn’t heard it in this detail since Ilya's father had passed. He sometimes wished he had recorded it simply to hear Ilya's voice seem so animated and alive.

Here it was again. On ESPN for the world to see. Ilya sprawled out on a leather chain, draped in an unfairly sexy white linen suit.

“Oh, cool,” Shane said, lamely. Captions scrawled across the bottom but Shane wasn’t watching them. He was following Ilya's mouth, those perfect Russian sounds…

“I always thought he was such an asshole,” Yuna said. “His answers to the media, the way he talks to his players. But now I’m wondering… is it just because he’s not that fluent?”

She turned back to the TV after Shane didn’t answer. “Oh my god, he’s talking about you.”

Chapter End Notes

Plot to begin soon… let me know if there are other topics you’d like me to explore

This takes place in some sort of mystery land where hunter is out but yuna doesn’t know and they’re later in the careers and sort of exclusive but not “im joining the centaurs” exclusive.

Chapter 5: Shane Hollander

“Shane Hollander, for example, has a very different public persona.”

“Yes.” Not a question. She knows better than to bait him like this.

“Prince of Hockey. Never started a fight on the ice, except for one notable incident last season. Plays a clean game. The media calls him ‘darling, kind, and a really honest guy’. He’s also often painted as your rival, given your twin stunning debuts in the same year and differing play styles. He’s also Canadian. You’re often introduced as ‘Canada’s Shane Hollander and Russia’s Ilya Rozanov’. ”

“I am glad you have used your eyes to observe sometime before today.”

“What do you make of your rivalry? Do you resent Shane Hollander and his much loved public persona?”

Before she has even finished the question, Ilya is shaking his index finger at her, slightly extended from his arm rest. The motion is lazy but emphatic. “No no no, I do not resent Shane Hollander. The ‘rivalry’ is purely for hockey and marketing purposes. Besides, no matter how hard he is beloved, he is still only second best at hockey.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Purely for marketing purposes?”

“You are slow. Everything in the NHL and especially related media is for show. None of it is real. People want to believe that we are locked in some sort of eternal battle for dominance on the ice, but we all know the truth.” He smiled. “I am simply the better player.”

“So you don’t hate him.”

“Why would I? It’s just a game. Playing for money doesn’t change anything about it.”

“Well, the media has said for your entire career or so that you do hate each other.”

Ilya clicked his tongue at her. “I have never said such a thing. People say that I think that but they cannot truly perceive any personal feelings, nor would I wish them too.”

“Do you think Shane Hollander hates you?”

Ilya smiled. A secret thing. “I don’t think Shane Hollander truly hates anyone.”

She looked at him. “Well, have you ever asked him?”

“We have spoken at length about the importance of the rivalry to our respective brands. We have an understanding.”

This time, she really does look shocked, out of place on her Slavic features.

“You’ve talked to Shane Hollander about the marketing of your rivalry?”

“Again, you Americans,” Ilya flopped back in his seat. In accented English, he said, “Don’t believe everything you see on TV.”

***

“When did you talk to Rozanov about your rivalry?” Yuna turned to her son. “Was there a meeting with agents I missed?”

“What?” Shane asked, distracted. “I mean- no. It wasn’t a like, big deal. We’ve just had, you know, a few conversations about making sure to keep up, the uh- the image.”

Shane cannot stop thinking about Ilya's ‘personal feelings’ . He hoped that was just a Russian translation and not something that would give them away…

“A few conversations?” Yuna demanded. “When? How often?”

“Oh, you know,” Shane gestured. “Whenever. I don’t know, I don't really keep track.”

“What’s this he’s talking about where you have an understanding to keep the rivalry going? I thought you hated him.”

“Cmon mom.” He can’t resist borrowing from Ilya. “I don’t hate anyone. It’s just, like. Good for the brand.”

“And you’ve talked to him about this? Multiple times? And never mentioned it to me?”

“Well, you hate him.”

“Because you said he was an asshole!” Yuna said. “The first time you met him you said he was an asshole.”

“Yeah, we were eighteen,” Shane folded his arms, trying to look casual. “He’s changed a lot.”

“Because you talk so much to Ilya Rozanov.” His mother looked at him like she’d never seen him before.

Shane looked down at his phone. He had already opened up his messages to Ilya.

“What? No, of course not.”

He started typing.

Jane: You sound really sexy when you speak Russian.

Lily: *winking emoji*

Jane: Although, I do feel jealous everyone gets to hear you like I do.

Lily: Don't feel jealous, Hollander, no one gets to hear me like u do

***

“So how do you truly feel about Shane Hollander?” The interviewer leaned forward, anticipating the sound bite of the year.

“He is the second best at hockey. That is all. To assume I have some sort of emotional investment beyond the requirement to do my job efficiently and effectively - which is to say, winning- is laughable.”

Denied. The interviewer thinks again. “You’ve often said that Hollander is the second best at hockey. In your view, who’s third best?”

Ilya shrugged. “No one.”

She blinked at him. “No one?”

“Are you deaf? Yes. The ‘rivalry’ is not based on nothing. People know that the two of us playing right now are the only ones who truly understand the game.”

“I don’t follow.”

Ilya groaned. “There is playing hockey. Showing up, putting the work in, studying the plays. Everyone who makes it to this level understands this. Then there is dominating in hockey. This involves giving everything to the sport. Every waking moment, studying, thinking, practicing. Not only by yourself but with your team. You must understand your opponent as well. Smith’s left side is weak. Last week the coach got a divorce. They use an older Zamboni model in this arena. Utilize what you know on and off the ice and give it everything you have, and then I will say someone deserves a rank in hockey.”

“And you think Shane Hollander does this.”

“That man wakes up early, every morning, and starts with a ten kilometer run. Everything he eats, down to the food he buys is carefully monitored to produce the best performance. No girlfriend, no wife. He has an indoor training rink at his house. He watches every game he plays at least thrice over. That man understands hockey. It is only too bad that it is not enough to beat me.”

“Wow,” the interviewer says. “You know a lot about Hollander.”

“It is my business to know my opponents.”

***

“Didn’t know Roz was a fucking Hollander fan,” Hardy grumbled. “What are we, chopped liver?”

“I also can’t believe the rivalry is like… constructed? Like they’re intentionally making it up?”

“Think about the last All Stars game. The NHL does everything possible to keep Roz and Hollander on opposite teams. Of course it’s fucking constructed.”

“I don’t buy it,” Wheeler shook his head. “Cap just doesn’t want to admit he cares about anyone. Hating is caring. There’s no one he wants to beat more than Hollander. You’ve see him play against Montreal.”

“Can’t get a Russian to admit his feelings, even if they’re hatred.”

***

Lily: What part r u watching

Jane: I missed the first part- I’m watching the segment where you’re talking about our rivalry.

Lily: ???

Lily: No no no no

Lily: They were to cut that part

Lily: Is the shit about hunter airing?

Yuna glanced at Shane. “I don’t think we ever publicized the fact that you have an indoor hockey rink.”

“I think it was in that one GQ interview, mom. Has he mentioned Scott Hunter at all?”

“I don’t remember recording in there at all, honey. And yes, he just talked about how the NHL reacts to domestic violence and LGBTQ issues. It was actually really insightful, if cynical.”

Shante shrugged. “I’m sure I’ve just mentioned it at some point to somebody and it got out.”

Jane: Yes, my mom said they did air that part. Why, was it not supposed to?

Lily: brb. I need 2 call my shithead agent

“And how did Rozanov hear about it?”

“I have no idea what goes on in his mind. Maybe he just guessed.”

Yuna’s eyes are glued back to the screen.

Chapter 6: Darkness

Chapter Notes

“And what would you say about yourself, as one of the men who ‘deserves a rank in hockey’?”

“I understand hockey. When the power would go out in Moscow, which was frequent, the rink would be free. My coach and I would go practice in the dark. The ice was still smooth because it was so cold. He would pass me pucks in total darkness. I had to orient myself to the sound of it sliding across the ice. Shoot. Score. Remember where the goal was without seeing it.

“He taught me to play without seeing. To see the play before it happened. Sound. Smell. Utilize what you know about the players and anticipate their moves. Use your voice. Rile them up. Get them mad, unfocused.

“You argue that perhaps I have been unfairly characterized because I am Russian. This is patently untrue. It is precisely because I am Russian that they should fear me.”

“You want it more badly than they do,” the interviewer said.

“Yes. I have crossed oceans, left my family behind, and I have little to distract me playing this sport. When another player even thinks about me or my team, I want them to think of fourteen year old Ilya Rozanov, playing in the dark in Moscow. I want them to know I put in more hours a day when I was twelve than they do now. I want them to know that before they ever step foot on the ice, I have already won.”

He tapped his head. “The game happens up here. It is won and lost in your mind far before the game is even announced. And if you don’t understand that,” Ilya shrugged. “There is no point in saying you understand hockey.”

***

“Before this whole Russian translation thing started, I thought Roz was a really intense guy,” Hardy said. “Then I saw the few questions, and I thought, oh, he’s just a regular guy who can’t speak English that well and we’ve all been an ass to him. And then…”

“I think he might be even more intense than any of us dreamed of. This guy is a beast,” Marlow agreed.

“I’m thinking about little tiny Rozanov playing in the dark and it’s making me really sad,” Wheeler said. “All alone. Poor guy.”

“I didn’t even know Roz was a child. I thought he was just born, fully grown, and a menace on ice.” The player who spoke was obviously joking, but it hid a deeper truth. No one had ever wondered where Ilya Rozanov, hockey star, had truly come from.

The Bears looked at each other, not wanting to admit the same thought.

***

“He’s smart. Really smart,” Yuna said disbelievingly.

“You don’t get to this level by being dumb, mom.” Shane feels a warmth growing in his chest. He had always felt like he was the only person who saw Ilya for who he truly was. Clever, sensitive, childlike Ilya. If he had been paying more attention, he would have seen his mother staring at the TV, for the first time in her life hearing the her love of hockey described aloud. Seen someone truly understand what it meant to know the players, know the game, and win by knowing yourself. To want something and work and work and work for it and win. All of Yuna Hollander's love for a sport that had defined her and her son's life articulated by her son's rival on TV. Shane was still looking at his phone.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my heart breaks for Rozanov. It makes me so sad to think of him in the US, so young and alone. I can’t imagine you going abroad at that age, all by yourself. Do you think anyone showed up for him when he won the Stanley Cup?”

“I’m sure someone was watching him,” Shane said. He glanced at the phone again, anxious. Ideas of what Ilya had said about Hunter fill his mind. Not knowing was worse than knowing. Was he going to be okay?

“Did you know he was that smart?”

“Of course, mom. I’m a better shot, and I’m a faster skater. The only thing he has on me is that he understands people better. That’s what stands him apart from everyone else.”

“He understands people,” his mom turned to him. “Ilya Rozanov?”

“He just gets… he gets this look in his eye when you’re playing him. Like he understands you better than you understand yourself. It’s super unnerving. Ask anyone.”

Lily: Translation office fucked up. Sent full interview to press instead of shortened. Fuck fuck fuck

Jane: Oh shit, Ilya I’m so sorry. Did you say something about Scott Hunter that you’re worried about?

Lily: My fucking visa. My lawyer is calling the embassy now. The fucking NHL...This is fucking bad

Yuna is staring at him, open mouthed. “You think he understands people better than you do?”

Shane shrugged, not really paying attention. His whole being is consumed by thoughts of Ilya. Will he get extradited? Will ESPN take the interview down? His heart was beating so fast he didn’t even hear his own response to his mother.

“I don’t think, mom. I know so. It’s what makes him so good, English language or not. Ilya Rozanov understands how to play the real game.”

***

“So it sounds like you think you and Shane Hollander are the only people who truly give their all to the game.”

“Correct.”

“That sounds like a rivalry to me.”

Ilya shrugged. “I don’t care what the media thinks.”

She looked at him for a moment. “What do you care about, then?”

“My team. Winning. Hockey. In that order.”

“Team comes first?” She asked.

“Always. You talk about my inaccurate reputation and then are surprised I am a team player . I love my team. I am so proud of the progress they’ve made over the years and I appreciate every single one of them, on and off the ice.”

“People have observed you telling each teammate you love them as they walk off the ice.”

“It’s true. Why shouldn’t I say it?”

She looked impressed. “You don’t often mention it in interviews.”

“Again,” Ilya said. “The interviews, the media, I don’t care. My team knows it and that’s what matters to me.”

***

“He always tells us he loves us after every game,” Wheeler pointed out. “I’ve always really appreciated that. He never made me feel bad for being injured.”

“And for what big game he talks, he’s not a selfish player,” Marlow said. “He always passes, makes sure everyone is in the right place. Men with egos half as big wouldn’t do that.”

“Wait- what the fuck is happening?” Hardy said. The TV suddenly cut the broadcast and showed the ESPN logo. No music was playing. No cut to commercials.

“The broadcast just… stopped.”

“This is pre-recorded, right? It’s not like they got bombed or something,” Marlow chucked nervously.

The screen suddenly cut to two talking heads. “We have an announcement and apology from the heads of ESPN publishing,” the woman said.

The man tilted forward to read the page. “We interrupt this broadcast to share that the ESPN exclusive interview with Ilya Rozanov was broadcast in full, against the contract signed with the publishing office. The office agreed to eliminate any content that could put Rozanov’s visa in danger of being revoked and failed to do so. Our publishing office claims this was done in error due to communication issues with the translation office.”

He looked up from his paper. “We sincerely apologize to Ilya Rozanov and his team. We will not be airing the rest of the interview, and will remove all recordings until the situation is resolved. We ask that anyone who has recorded this interview delete it.”

The woman shook her head. “This never should have happened.”

“What the fuck?” Wheeler said. “Dude, they’re not going to air the rest?”

“Even neutral information about the gays is not cool in Russia,” Hardy said. “ESPN doesn’t want to accidentally get the most famous hockey player in the world extradited.”

“They wouldn’t do that, right?” Marlow said. “He’s like, super rich and famous.”

“I don’t want to know what they’re going to do.”

***

Jane: They’ve cut the interview. I’m not sure how that’s going to help. I’m sure everyone already has recordings and they’re going to dissect what already aired.

Lily: Not all bad. Probably distract from what i said about u

Jane: And your visa?

Lily: more worried about NHL. like i said, bad press to talk about supporting women.

Yuna said, “Poor Rozanov. This is only going to make it worse. This isn’t going to go away.”

And it didn’t.

Yuna put her elbow on the couch, turning at her son, remarkably surprised by the interview being forced from the air. He hadn’t even glanced at the TV.

“Who are you texting?” she asked.

Chapter End Notes

I actually have no idea what the situation of the power grid was in Moscow but consider it artistic liberty. Also, the stuff about hockey in the dark idk but it sounded cool so i am keeping it. Ilya understanding people and that fundamentally giving him an edge over everyone else, I will stand by that.

Also any predicted chapter count rn is a lie. ignore. i love writing this. and plot wise since the interview broad cast was cut short, it means ilya answered questions we haven't seen! let me know if there is any particular topic you'd like me to discuss in this fic.

Chapter 7: The Professor I

Chapter Notes

“Turn to a different fucking channel,” Marlow commanded. “Someone else is going to be talking about this.”

Obediently, Hardy switched to SportzFactor, the trashy outlet that didn’t adhere to any sort of journalistic integrity. They were already talking about it.

***

“Well, no sense in keeping him waiting, Jim” one of the macho male talking heads said. Marlow squinted. Ex MMA?

“Indeed,” Jim said. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unusual guest today. A first for the show. Professor of Russian history and literature from Boston University, please welcome Adam Johnston.”

The camera switched to a man in a suit and tie, out of place in the juvenile setting of the talk show.

“Thanks for having me. I’ve been looking forward to this interview since it was announced. I’m a huge Boston Bears fan and really happy to add my perspective to this conversation around Rozanov.”

“Happy you have you, Adam. Now, what can you say about what we’ve seen so far, despite the interview being cut short?”

“Well, it was good of ESPN to cut it off. Russia is extremely strict with their policies on citizens talking about LGBTQ issues. For Rozanov, we could be looking at getting his visa revoked, and extradition to Russia for trial. Most likely, we’re just looking at a fine or nothing happening.”

“Extradition? Really?” Jim was agape. “Does that happen?”

“Something this high profile has never happened before, but people are fined or imprisoned under Russia's gay propaganda law. I think Rozanov is probably safe. He didn’t say anything too incriminating, and he said it on US soil. Like Rozanov pointed out, money is the real driver. Russia isn’t going to start a fight with the US that doesn’t win them anything.”

“Deep shit, man,” the interviewer nodded dumbly. “I’m a New York fan, so obviously I hate Rozanov’s guts, but no one wants to see him extradited, so let’s pivot. What did you make of the rest of the interview? First impressions?”

“My initial impression was of his accent. We knew he grew up in Moscow.

“Rozanov has a cultured, old fashioned accent. Old money, old values. It’s the language of literature, so he sounds sort of like a book character. Very jarring to hear on the NHL’s most notorious hockey player.”

“Oh wow, that is weird,” Jim added. “A fascinating look at him.”

“My research revealed that his father was Polkovnik in the militarized police force. That translates to about a colonel for us. He was a bit older than you’d expect, and would have had his career right in the golden age of the USSR.”

“Police?”

“Militarized police. Not the boys in blue we have here in the States. Rozanov’s father would have been powerful, well connected, and wealthy. We could have guessed that from Rozanov’s career in competitive hockey, which is generally reserved for the rich due to the expense.”

“Well, at least that’s not that different from here,” Jim nodded.

“But even wealth couldn’t help you escape from the sheer collapse that happened in Russia post USSR. What Rozanov describes- no heat, lost power. Very typical.”

“So what’re we looking at here, Professor? What makes the son of a Russian colonel go all in on American capitalism? What made Ilya Rozanov the absolute hockey beast he is today?” Jim said ‘capitalism’ with the same glee as a five year old who learned a new word yesterday.

“Well, even if he didn’t receive a lot of English education, it’s almost certain Rozanov got a comprehensive history and economics education. The USSR was big on that, and it would have almost certainly continued post collapse. However, as they transitioned to a market economy, the younger generations, like Rozanov, would have looked to established countries for metrics of success."

“Like the US.”

“Like the US. So if you grow up in a failed empire, old values don’t work anymore, I think it’s only natural to reinvent yourself in the American image. Fast cars, lots of ladies, right?” The professor chuckles. “Not a typical Russian archetype. But a common one for those with ‘new money’ in Russia and the US.”

“Fascinating,” Jim said. “And this behavior wouldn’t be acceptable in Russia?”

“It’s not marketable in Russia the same way it is here. And, like he said, he wanted to get out of Russia, playing in the US is a great way to do that. The hockey training camps in Russia are also brutal. Think of every other Olympic sport the Russians play, the stories you’ve heard, and realize how much pressure they put on athletes that actually have a shot at winning gold.”

“He did win gold for Russia at the World Juniors in 2009, and silver in 2010.”

The professor shook his head. “Silver is often worse than losing. I can’t imagine that went over well at home.”

“But he’s here now. Made it to the US. Absolutely destroys us in New York,” Jim grinned, trying to inject levity. “We won’t speak about his residency status. Thank you for your analysis on Russia’s history. What do you make of his English language skills? Are they about on par with what a typical Russian receives?”

The professor shrugged. “English education varied wildly across Russia. The son of a diplomat might be completely fluent. Some people, especially in rural areas with media restrictions, would have none. I think reading between the lines of what Rozanov said, we can guess he wasn’t encouraged to learn English at all.”

Jim gaped at him. “At all?”

“I’m just speculating here, Jim, but what I think probably happened is, you have a father who is reminiscing about the golden years of his country, serving it proudly. You live in the capitol, surrounded by the wealthy and the rich culture of Moscow. Fine arts, fine music, language, literature. Why look to the West, to the US, when you have a beautiful country here to play hockey in? Why learn English, when you are lucky enough to be born rich and Russian?”

“That word he used, English learning being controversial-” Jim started.

“A bit of nuance is lost there, when the word he used was so esoteric and specific to Russian culture. But it was a fair translation. All I am saying is, there’s a group of people in Moscow who really look down on learning English, as a symbol of the West.”

“So, filling in the gaps, Rozanov comes to the US, with no support from his family, very little English. But he wants to be the best. He wants to play hockey.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Jim, but I think we both know what we saw.”

***

“Maybe just a fine?” Wheeler said. “Jesus. For a couple of sentences?”

“Fucking Russians, man. It’s how they get so intense.”

One of the rookies piped up. “I was so nervous doing my first media interview. I can’t imagine how fucked I’d be if I couldn’t do it in English. I mean- I took a few years of German in high school but-”

"You wouldn't be fucked," Marlow said, "if you didn't care how people saw you."

"Or pretended not to care, so no one knew you couldn't handle it." Wheeler added.

“It is interesting how the professor is saying that America itself became a personal symbol for Roz and how he came to embody its values, while paradoxically presenting himself as a symbol of Russian values,” Hardy said, almost to himself.

The room stopped.

“Dude, what?”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Another player asked.

“Was I not paying attention? When did he fucking say any of that? Isn’t this a hockey team?” A third.

Marlow stopped the conversation, “Dude, shut the fuck up. I’m texting the captain.”

Marlow: We saw the interview. We’re rooting for you, Roz.

Captain Roz: Thanks *thumbs up*

Marlow: Can you really do that thing with the pucks in the dark?

Captain Roz: Shut your stupid face Marly

Captain Roz: Of course I can.

Chapter End Notes

We will return to the Hollanders next chapter....

I appreciate all your comments so much! Especially the ones about living in a different culture and how it can be so hard to be yourself in a different language

Chapter 8: Texting

“Who are you texting?”

“Just Hayden,” Shane said. He glanced at his mother, coiled on the couch, and then at the red ESPN logo highlighting the TV. The broadcast had not resumed.

She nodded at the phone. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“The baby,” Shane lied uneasily. Another text pinged his phone.

Lily: Nvm I should not have asked you. You are so offline it is embarrassing.

Yuna looked away, not willing to confront something most mothers her age had faced long ago. Her perfect, darling boy, her only son, had just lied to her. To her face. About what?

When he was young, Shane was too busy with hockey to take any extraneous classes, like Intro to Psychology. If he hadn’t been, he might have learned about the theories that the people we come to love later in life often resemble those who first loved us. Maybe not in feature, but in mannerism, in personality. Perhaps Shane would have realized that the same piercing gaze that Ilya had perfected, the one that peered into your very soul, was the same one looking at him now.

“Who are you really texting?”

Her son looked up at her. He turned his phone off. He somehow suddenly looked like a stranger. Brown eyes and dark hair. For just a half second, he looked like a grown man with his own phone and his own life, an adult and not her son. Only for a second, and then reality clicked back into place. But it was enough. To wonder.

“What? Mom.”

“Shane-” she started. This was too impossible. Rozanov’s voice comes back to her, unbidden. She had heard him speak so much that the memory is dubbed over in her mind, English captions transitioning into accented words.

"That man wakes up early, every morning, and starts with a ten kilometer run. He watches every game he plays at least thrice over.

Don’t believe everything you see on TV.”

Perhaps his most essential observation. It was too specific. Too close to the reality she knew. She knew her son hated Rozanov. The news, the games, Shane’s interviews on TV…

"We have an understanding."

Too familiar. Shane didn’t even seem fazed by the declaration, continuing to text away on his phone.

“Shane, you’re not- you’re not texting, him are you?” She said it with a short burst of laughter, not even willing to believe it herself. She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name, as if that would make it real.

But her son is not a good liar, nor a good secret keeper. She could read his face easily, and what she read shocked her. Guilt, shame, surprise, anxiety, fear-

“What? Hayden?” Shane asked. It wasn’t genuine confusion. The lie made his face look like a stranger again. It made him easier to read, to evaluate like an opponent.

“No,” Yuna said, unsure of herself. “You’re texting Rozanov.” She waited for him to deny, to spin his phone around with a photo of the Pike baby and the world would reassert itself.

Shane’s eyes were fixed on the corner of the room. He almost curled in on himself, shoulders curving inward. If she didn’t know her son, she would have assumed he hadn’t heard her at all.

Later, she would wonder at why he decided to tell her the truth, then. Was it to make one step forward toward the truth? Was it because he had nowhere to hide?

“Just telling him it was a good interview,” Shane said, voice low. He blinked rapidly, still not looking at her.

Jesus. The room flexed and bent around her, from the force of that revelation. Rozanov. The most shit-talking, aggressive, unsportsmanlike player on the ice. Who had hurled her son into the boards more times than she could count, who took the #1 draft spot from him, and the first Stanley Cup win.

Shane was texting fucking Rozanov?

Shane shook his head, a small jitter. “I know you hate him. Just forget about it.” He moved to stand up from the couch, but Yuna couldn’t believe his fucking audacity.

“I hate him?” Yuna said. “You hate him! Why are you texting him? Why do you even have his phone number?”

Shane stood up now, still shaking his head. “I don’t know- professional courtesy? And I don’t hate him mom, I don’t hate anyone. It’s just fucking- it’s just a fucking game, okay?”

He was agitated, walking away from her. When had Shane ever said hockey was just a game? It was his life, it was her life.

“Just a game?” Yuna repeated, irritated. How dare he, when she had given up so much in pursuit of this sport? Dedicated her life to it?

Shane stopped, not facing her. So quietly, she couldn’t tell if he’d actually said it-

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

He turned around, back to the kitchen, face basked in red from the ESPN logo on the TV. “Look, Mom- he’s the captain of his team. We play against each other a lot, I see him at every All Stars game. I have his phone number. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal- Shane, he’s Ilya fucking Rozanov- he’s your rival, he’s a dirty player-”

“I know, Mom, I know- that’s why I never fucking mentioned it, so can you leave it alone? Please?” Shane never raised his voice with her. Ever. Even now his volume was simply increasing in intensity.

“Shane Hollander-” the scolding is out before Yuna can think better of it. Reflexes of parenting a teenager, you had to force it out of them before it developed into a habit, then you’d turn out snotty like Roza-

Her thoughts and regrets get cut short by the sound of a phone ringing.

Mother and son glance at his phone at the same moment.

Stillness, punctuated only by the sound of ringing.

Shane met her eyes once.

“I have to take this.”

He looked like a stranger again. Large, powerfully built, looming in her kitchen entrance.

Then he left.

***

“Maybe just as a fan of the team and the player, what do you make about his supposed girlfriend?”

The professor laughed. “I can actually answer that with a Russian perspective too. First off, we have to remember Rozanov has spent most of his adult life here in the US.”

“Right,” Jim nodded.

“So he brings his values from home but is also surrounded by the luxurious, debauched lifestyle of the American elite. It doesn’t surprise me at all that a young, rich man would enter the US dating market and suddenly start shopping, for lack of a better word. It’s something you absolutely couldn’t do in Russia, at least not publicly.”

“No casual dating in Russia?”

“There is more of it now, but when Rozanov was growing up, it wouldn’t have been big, especially in the old fashioned circles he grew up in. It wouldn’t surprise me that as he’s getting older, he would start to think more seriously about marriage.”

“Marriage?” The interviewer's eyes bugged out. “Ilya Rozanov?”

The professor held up his hands. “Like he said- none of us know the man personally. We see what he wants us to see. Heck- I wouldn’t be surprised if he already was married and was keeping it secret to maintain his image.”

“The Russian villain image,” Jim said. “Because it sells.”

“It sells. Think about it, no one is selling out arenas for Ilya Roz-AN-ov, the kind immigrant from the former Soviet Union.” The professor pronounced the correct stressed syllable.

“They’re selling tickets for Ilya ROZ-an-ov, the biggest, baddest, most shit talking Russian dickwad to ever hit the ice. That’s what the fans pay to see and that’s what he delivers.”

“Sounds like you agree with the interviewer on this Russian stereotyping, Professor.”

“That’s what Rozanov said and he certainly knows the game better than either of us.”

“Wow, great segment, thank you professor.” Jim turned back to the camera and said, “Thanks for watching our analysis of Ilya Rozanov’s bombshell interview, stay tuned for more.”

***

Hardy clicked it off.

“He’s not going to like that.”

“He’s got an image and that really doesn’t do anything to help. If there’s anything Rozanov doesn’t want to be, it’s pitied.”

“Boston’s not going to like it either,” Bradshaw pointed out. “Boston’s image is an aggressive, macho sort of deal. Rozanov is part of that.”

“We’re not going to let Boston give him any shit,” Wheeler said. “If they wanna come out and claim Rozanov said something he shouldn’t have, we gotta let them know we won’t stand for it. He’s our fucking captain.”

Chapter 9: Meetings

Chapter Notes

Yuna had turned off the TV. The room was quiet. She had planned on watching the Pittsburgh game today, but her whole worldview had turned on its edge. Hockey would have to wait.

Instead, she thinks. No one knew her son better than she did. She was sure of it. She had been there for his first moments, first steps on the ice, first hockey game. The day of the draft, every commercial. Sure, once he went pro, she stopped attending every game but she watched them later.

She knew that he didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. But that was because he was different. Not a bad different, she defended to herself. But better. The other kids were loud and immature. Shane had just wanted to play hockey. He had always been a little awkward, but sweet. And polite.

Nothing like that Boston asshole Ily-

She was getting ahead of herself. The point being, is all that Shane’s friends had been just like Hayden Pike. Nice, charming, decent people, right down to their bones. Not a lot of friends, but always carefully selected.

Most importantly, Yuna knew about all of them. She knew every aspect of Shane’s life. She was his mother, manager, agent, and yes, friend. It wasn’t that she felt entitled to know every aspect of Shane’s life. It was just a fact. The sun revolves around the earth, the Voyagers are going to the playoffs this year, and Yuna Hollander knew everything important about her son.

And so, apparantly, did Ilya fucking Rozanov.

He knew too much. It was too specific. His knowledge of Shane’s routines, his home, his personality-

His smug fucking tone leaked through the Russian translation, the way he declared that Shane Hollander didn’t really hate anyone. What a dick. In fact, he was such a dick that his assholeness somehow leaked through the TV, and infected her son’s tone, the way he snapped at her.

Shane never snapped at her. Suddenly her frustration and anger and surprise morph into every mother’s most familiar feeling. Worry, and self-recrimination.

Her son’s friend was going through a hard time, and here she was being upset about it.

Shame welled up inside her. David often teased her that she cared too much about hockey, but she knew his teasing hid a deeper truth. She wanted Shane to be the best, because she had always known he could be. Maybe she pushed him hard, but she had to. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, to be raunchy or rowdy like the other players, to have reputations. And that was her fault. If he had a different mother, looked a little different, represented something else…

And besides, she had never, not once, gotten the sense that Shane truly minded her presence. He wanted her to be his manager, wanted her at every game, bought his own house ten minutes away from hers. Those were his decisions he made, as an adult.

But still, Shane couldn’t afford to be associated with such a playboy. As Rozanov had said, reputations were everything in hockey. It was what separated the good from the best.

Against her will, Rozanov’s words filled her mind again.

”Who’s third best?”

“No one.”

Yes, the rivalry was key to their image, Yuna could admit. She had always resented Rozanov for taking Shane’s place in the spotlight, for having Shane’s generational dominance always be underscored by a question mark. But still, it was important. No one could talk about one without the other. What one achieved, the other would be expected to. Yin and yang, swirling around each other since the day they landed on the ice.

She wondered, briefly, if Rozanov thought he was stealing Shane’s spotlight, or merely sharing it.

And then she wondered about her own little boy, always better than anyone else at his peewee games. Always the MVP, always the coach's favorite. Always alone, at the top. Shining, yes, dominant, yes, successful, but also alone. Yuna had thought he was happy there. He never seemed to be lacking, never complained.

Was it possible that Shane looked across the ice to his rival, his only equal, the only person who really understood hockey, and saw a friend?

Someone to confide in. Someone to call when everything goes wrong.

Yuna stared at the spot from where her son disappeared to answer his rival’s call. The answer was, evidently, yes.

Yuna felt her heart grow cold. What did it say about her, that she had never even once considered it?

***

Ilya was going to fire his goddamn agent. First, he sets him up for a useless, personal interview in Russian. When was the last time he had ever had to play the media game in Russian? Never. He was out of practice, unguarded. Vulnerable. No longer having the second to two it took to translate made his answers slip out quick, unexamined. The stupid investigative journalist with blue hair had looked right through him and pried open his bloody secrets for the whole world to see.

Second, his shithead agent doesn’t properly review the footage before allowing ESPN to air it. He’d shit talked his country, his league, talked about Shane Hollander…

Third, all the fucking phone calls and meetings were in English. The stupid interviewer had asked if he had a lawyer who spoke Russian and English. Of course he didn’t. There weren’t any, not at the caliber he needed, with the right speciality. He could understand just fine. Until the rapid fire legalese started.

He didn’t want a translator. Didn’t trust them. Having a translator was weak, and stupid. It made the Americans with college degrees treat you like you weren’t even there. So he endured.

Apparently this meeting was urgent enough to be called the same day the interview aired. It was late, well past regular business hours. Ilya supposed he should be flattered.

He stared ahead at the woman talking. He was mostly looking at the Boston skyline, a slick view from the skyscraper office they were seated in. Officials from the Bears and the NHL were crowded around a fine table, all taking turns to “talk seriously” and “express their concerns.”

“The NHL is saddened by your comments about the Patrick Kane case and wants a statement from you on the matter,” she said.

Patrick Kane, another face in the news for allegedly raping a woman. The investigation hadn’t continued. The NHL had done nothing. Now it was Ilya’s problem.

“I did not talk of Patrick Kane or the rape case,” Ilya ground out. “I say rapist, they say Patrick Kane. Says more about them than me, no?”

The faceless men and women in suits hadn’t appreciated that. He shouldn’t try to be funny. He shouldn’t have spoken in Russian. He should have stayed in the little box he had made. Ilya Rozanov, Russian, asshole, womanizer, and idiot. No further questions, no further insight. No further fucking problems.

And yet… it had been so wonderful to have been asked in Russian. To be praised and validated in a language that so often had only condemned him. The language of his childhood, his mother. But also dangerous, because words sprang so easily to him.

“The NHL believes in equality for all, and needs all its representatives to be on the same page for this. We found your comments to be out of line with our values.”

What the fuck did that even mean? Rapid fire speech, specialized words and phrases and expressions. Ilya suspected that even if he was fluent the meaning would be obscured.

Luckily, one of his lawyers stepped in. “Mr. Rozanov did not intend for those comments to be publicized. I think it is clear that he understands the importance of branding.”

Thank fuck. At least he wasn’t paying these people for nothing.

“Rozanov,” another one of his lawyers called out from the doorway. Even his name sounded foreign with these people. “It’s the embassy. They want to talk to you”.

Ilya couldn’t muster a response that wasn’t ‘fuck you’ so he got up to take the call.

“Ilya Rozanov,” the voice said from the phone.

“This is he,” Ilya responded in Russian. The voice on the other end was most certainly Russian.

“This is Sergey Kislak, Russian Ambassador to the US.” The voice said. Low and deep, with a Moscow accent. The man’s face flashed through Ilya’s mind. He’d never met him, but anyone who was anyone in Moscow had heard of him. They called him the diplomat’s diplomat.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency,” Ilya said politely. He was an officer’s son, first and foremost.

The man laughed, an affable habit he had developed to ingratiate himself among the Americans.

“Listen, my son. I never knew your father. Heard of him, of course. He was a good Moscow man. Served his country proudly.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Ilya said.

“I’m sure he’s looking out for you from heaven. Just as Russia looks out for you now.”

“That is a nice thought, Your Excellency.” Bullshit.

“Son, no one wants this to turn into a debacle. No one wins. We’ve all enjoyed watching you play. No one wants to listen to you speak, do you understand me?”

“I understand, Your Excellency."

“Play your game. Fuck your women. Be Russia. Do not talk about Russia. Next time I call, it will not be so nice.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.” If Ilya had to say ‘Your Excellency’ one more time he was going to scream. It was like talking to his own father. Yes sir, no sir. The tone and the language sends him right back to his childhood, being scolded.

“More lives than your own are at stake here. You are the face of Russian hockey in the US. I know you understand the game, my son. Keep playing, make us proud.”

And then the Russian ambassador to the US hung up on him.

Ilya sighed. That could have gone much worse. Maybe it will, one day. Perhaps power will change hands and someone will deem him a liability instead of an asset.

A small ‘ding’ alerted him to an incoming text message.

Jane: How is it going?

Lily: I am not getting sent back to Russia, but the NHL is pissed.

Jane: Let me know if you need to talk to someone. I’m always here.

Ilya didn’t respond, pain creeping up his spine.

He was never going to give another Russian interview. He had too much to lose.

Chapter End Notes

Required viewing is this amazing fan art by pocketsized-art please go check it out!!!!

https://www.tumblr.com/pocketsized-art/806709739182538752/hey-yall-go-read-this-amazing-ilya-rozanov

 

Ive decided that the perfect lens to view ilya is through Yuna. She knows exactly as much as is publicly available on him. Now she gets to know the truth! I am living for your comments thx for being here

Chapter 10: Longberg

Chapter Notes

CW for mentions of racist behavior.

DAILY BUZZ: KANE CLAPS BACK TO ROZANOV’S ‘SLANDER’ - SAYS NOTHING WAS EVER PROVED

NYT: RUSSIAN EMBASSY SILENT. ROZANOV STAYS. FOR NOW.

BUZZFEED: BOSTON HOCKEY HERO MET WITH OUTPOURING OF LOVE AND HATE FROM LONG TIME FANS

Shane clicked on the third article, not wanting to read anymore rumination about Ilya’s status. All Ilya had gotten were simple scoldings from Russia and the NHL. What he’d said had been so mild, Shane feared that if they ever found out about them…

The BUZZFEED article continued.

‘Boston hockey hero, Ilya Rozanov, was born and raised in Russia. After two Russian language questions, and a controversial interview, fans are realizing there is more to this hockey star than what meets the eye… read on to see how the internet is reacting to the everythingness that just happened.

@jackrussel718
Why is @ilyarozanov81 talking about the gays and Hunter? Just play the game, man

@terrieflowers
@jackrussel718 that’s literally what he said in the fucking interview, that the nhl doesn’t hold space for those kinds of questions bc of fans like you

@jackrussel718
@terrieflowers “hold space” go outside freak. Some of us just wanna watch hockey.

@mybabyilyaaaa
YAAAAS I always knew my soft uwu boi was for the girls and the gays

@marlow4ever
@mybabyilyaaaa he is a grown ass man. He’s for the streets

@mybabyilyaaaa
@marlow4ever more like my sheets.

@styxdr4gonhead
K yall are spending way too much time talking about @ilyarozanov81’s comments about the nhl instead of talking about THE FACT HE FEELS STEREOTYPED AS A RUSSIAN INSTEAD OF HIS OWN PERSON??

@rozanovoesposa
@styxdr4gonhead not true. We are also talking about his ass.

Shane glanced at the next one, which BUZZFEED had helpfully translated into English from Russian.

@Хоккей_с_шайбой1881
I think what @ilyarozanov81 said about Russian stereotyping holds true for a lot of athletes and immigrants all over the US. You are not alone!

But the next reply was:

@Ужин_с_пингвином
@Хоккей_с_шайбой1881 it’s not really a stereotype if he is an asshole? That’s what he said. That is who he is.

@streetfightersfan
Is anyone else surprised at how smart @ilyarozanov81 is? I was always under the impression he had no idea what was going on

@bestofprincessmargret
@streetfightersfan I wish I could be surprised at how ignorant this take is but I’m literally not.

@sass81
I think the most important thing we learned was that one day I want to get @ilyarozanov81 so turned on he can’t speak anything but Russian

Shane abruptly closed the article. Jesus. Just when you’d thought BUZZFEED would actually say something insightful.

***

Yuna almost wished her son had caused a few more problems growing up. So she could have learned her own weaknesses, so they could have developed a rhythm for smoothing over differences.

Of course Shane was allowed to have his own friends, however ill advised. He didn’t have to tell her everything. He was, she admitted, his own person. She regretted her own impulsive response, but doesn’t know what to do.

She was deeply, deeply curious. Shane hadn’t brought it up at dinner, David had enough stories from work to fill the silence, but he couldn’t help glancing between her and Shane, in a silent ask of what’s wrong?

She wasn’t sure. Was it that Shane was worried about his friend? (His friend, Ilya fucking Rozanov) Worried about her reaction?

The scariest part was, if she hadn’t known, she would have chalked it up to one of his moods. Wouldn’t have pushed, wouldn’t have pried. Just thought it was another one of Shane’s many quirks.

It was morning now. Shane would be leaving soon, and with it, Yuna’s chance of talking to him.

She won’t push. She won’t pry. Shane wants to have a secret friendship with his rival? Yuna will let him. Thus resolved, she headed out of her backdoor, intending to catch a cup of tea with her neighbor. It will be a good distraction before Shane leaves.

As she walked by the fence, she heard voices.

One, her son’s. concerned, phone pressed close to his ear. He is leaning against the other side of the wooden fence, arms crossed, facing away from her. His shoulders are hunched, pressing the phone into the gap tightly.

And the other, leaking through the phone, not muffled by barely a foot of space and some wooden slats.

A Russian voice.

Shane started to speak again.

“Yeah, well, my mom is like. Freaking out. What you said about me was specific enough for her to figure out that we’re friends. I don’t think anyone else could have figured it out though.”

“Ah,” Yuna could not place the tone. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

“Shut up,” Shane replied. But it was almost in a friendly way with no heat. Something she would have never associated with Rozanov before. Yuna had never heard her son say that to anyone so casually.

“I am sorry about that. I am just not used to giving interviews in Russian. The words- they come too easily. I have more practice in English. You know, email language?”

“Email language?”

“English,” there is a groan of frustration. “Is email. Work. Job. Russian is- “ Ronzanov sighed. Yuna recognized it from her own voice, years ago trying to articulate to her mother how she felt. But the Japanese she knew lacked nuance or an adult feel to it. “Russian is different,” he finished lamely.

“How so?”

“Russian is home,” Rozanov said. Yuna wanted to gasp at the amount of emotion he managed to pack into a single phrase. Before the interview, she never heard him sound anything other than angry or boastful. “But Russian is also sad. It is a sad language. With sad books. And it never loved me back, I don’t think.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s hard.”

“Better now. As you say, my English has improved a lot since I’ve moved here. But still. I don’t know why they ask these stupid fucking questions about my- the way I am- what is-“

“Persona?”

“Da, yes, persona,” Rozanov said. Yuna didn’t want to know how her son knew to step in, how he knew that the spiraling was Rozanov looking for a word he couldn’t quite grasp. How did her son, who couldn’t find a social cue if it hit him on the head, knew Rozanov’s quirks inside and out.

“It is a stupid question,” Rozanov continued. “Why are you the way that you are? I’m a fucking hockey player from Russia! Why would I be anything else? Fucking look at the world, go outside take a look it’s fucking free, and then you can shove your stupid questions up your ass.”

“I get it,” Shane said. “Having to be what they want you to be. Like- they have an image of you in their mind, and then they run right around asking you why you want to live up to that image. Sometimes- sometimes it really sucks. I get it.”

“I think you are the only person who does.” Yuna stifled a gasp. “I know it is not easy for you, either. Looking the way you do. When she asked me about Shane Hollander, I wanted to say, are you blind? Take a look around, how many players do you see that look like him?”

“Ilya-”

“It is true. Shane Hollander must be clean, perfect, perfect because they would not accept anything else. Do you think he can party? Meet girls? No, never. It doesn’t fit the image.”

“I think my mom would kill me if I started partying and going out every night.”

“Because she knows. What the NHL is too scared to confront. What everyone is obsessed with but pretends not to know. There is only one way that you and I are allowed to play. So we do it.”

The only sound was Shane’s exhale.

“Have you told your mother about Longberg?” Rozanov asked abruptly.

Shane scoffed. “No.”

Yuna’s mind raced with hockey statistics. Mark Longberg. Rookie, third line forward for the Boston Bears. It was his rookie season and he was given no ice time for the last three games. No one knew why.

“He’s off the team,” Rozanov continued. “One good thing comes from this fucking interview, I tell the NHL if you care so much about your goddamn image you’ll get that bastard off my team.”

“Jesus, you didn’t need to do that for me.”

“Not just for you. He shouldn’t have said that. Unacceptable. He shouldn’t even have thought it.”

“It’s one comment, Ilya. It’s not a big deal. I’m used to it.”

“It is not right. I don’t want to play on a team with a man like that. They should criticize you for your weak backhand, not your looks.”

“My backhand’s fine, asshole.”

Yuna startled at her son’s swearing in the midst of a seemingly important conversation. But the pieces were coming together to paint a very depressing picture. Longberg had said something to Shane, about “his looks”. Rozanov had overheard, and used his opportunity in front of the NHL to get him kicked off the team.

“Hmm, it’s not great,” Rozanov said. Rozanov - her son’s rival - who stood up for him. Who quietly, gracefully, removed racist players from his own team. Rozanov, who called Shane to tell him so. And Shane, who didn’t sound surprised that he had.

“I should go,” Rozanov said into the silence. “More meetings. Practice in the afternoon. You know how it is.”

“I do know,” Shane said. I think you are the only person who does, echoed in Yuna’s mind.

“Goodbye Shane.” Such a normal phrase, it sounded like some sort of inside joke. Knowing, and heavy.

“Goodbye Ilya.”

Yuna saw the movement of her son hanging up the phone, preparing to round the fence. Should she pretend she didn’t hear? There was no unhearing that. She didn’t want to be dishonest with Shane, either.

She lost the time to decide. Shane rounded the corner of the fence and saw her.

“Mom!”

Chapter End Notes

My boi Ilya Rozanov does not stand for racism in any lifetime

I am loving all the comments! thank you so much for all the love and feedback. as a fair warning i am one of the rare ao3 writers who does zero (0) research for any of my fics, so kudos to those who point them out but im keeping my inaccuracies lol.

Happy V-Day to those who celebrate!

Chapter 11: The Story of Us

Chapter Notes

“Mom!”

“I didn't mean to listen in-” Yuna started.

“How much of that did you overheard?” Shane’s eyes were wide, frantic with panic.

“Not much- just the end,” she said desperately. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”

“Jesus, Mom!” Shane said again.

“Is that true- about Longberg?” She asked.

“I mean- “Shane sighed, eyes narrowing briefly before relaxing. “Yeah. It’s true. He’s off the team.”

Yuna nodded with too much energy. “That was nice of Rozanov.”

Her son wouldn’t look at her, gaze fixed onto a corner of the yard. “I guess.”

“Maybe nice wasn’t- I don’t know, Shane. Why wouldn’t you want to tell me?”

That was the part that bothered her most. When Rozanov had asked if Shane had confided in her, Shane had dismissed it out of hand.

She couldn’t believe she was agreeing with Rozanov. Shane should have told her.

Her son shrugged, not looking at her. “I don’t know.” Her son was a bad liar. “It wasn’t really- I mean.” He sighed. “Feels like a weird thing to get upset about when I’m not really like an actual-“

“You’re not what, Shane?”

He shrugged again. “I guess it shouldn’t bother me because I’m not like- really Asian? So it sort of feels like I don’t have the right to be like. Hurt. So I just- I don’t know.”

Yuna was shocked the sound of her heart breaking wide open didn’t echo into the stillness of the day. Her poor baby. Her son. Who, when faced with such over hatred, thought it was his fault. That his feelings were wrong.

“Oh honey,” she said, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Look at me. Of course you are. It’s okay if it’s- I’m sure it was awful.”

Shane shrugged, still not looking at her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know I shouldn’t-”

“Who says you shouldn’t?” She asked desperately. She was still turning over the ‘not really Asian idea.’ All she had wanted, when she was young, was to escape the oppressive reach of those distant islands. Escape the hierarchy, the smells of the food that permeated her clothes. Outrun her parents, the labels and looks that were so constantly tossed her way.

Her son, her crowning achievement. Raised right, well versed in everything Canadian. A hockey player, polite and successful. No burden of his heritage weighing on him.

She had sent him to school with a packed sandwich and yogurt, like she always begged her parents for. She thought it was a gift. Maybe it hadn’t been.

“I’m not really-“ Shane started.

Did they talk about Japan, their shared heritage, so little, that Shane could scarcely say it?

“Of course you are,” Yuna said. It choked out of her, unfamiliar in its vulnerability. To her, her own identity was too overt. Too much. Undesirable. “You’re my son.”

“Oh,” Shane said.

Mind racing, Yuna traced back every time they’d ever really talked about it. The Asian elephant in the white room. So few. So scarce. And what had happened?

When he was little, she always told him that he belonged. That he was just like all of the other little boys in his class. When people asked if he spoke any Japanese, she told him to just respond that he was born in Ottawa.

Denial, denial, denial. Not Asian at all.

So what was her beautiful son, who had listened to her all his life, supposed to do when faced with a slur that felt like it didn’t fit?

Call someone who understands. Not her. Someone in the league, who understands its oppressive whiteness, but still stands outside of it.

One boy who didn’t look right. One boy who didn’t sound right. Alone at the top. Together. What else was supposed to happen, except finding each other?

“Of course it’s allowed to hurt,” Yuna declared, knowing that sometimes Shane needed permission to understand his feelings. “And apparently Rozanov understands that. It was good of him to stand up for you.”

At that, Yuna gets a small smile from her son. “He’s not so bad, really. It’s mostly an act.”

Yuna nodded. They’d revisit this later. When neither of them were raw with emotion.

Shane surprises her by speaking. “It’s nice. Sometimes ... .It's lonely.”

“Being at the top. Being… me.” Dancing around the word again.

“Lonely?” Yuna asked. Her little boy, who always had trouble making friends at school.

“He makes me feel less lonely. He gets it. What it’s like.”

Yuna stroked her son’s shoulders, the last of her Rozanov prejudice leaking out with her son's confession. Her mind was already whirring with a plan on how to fix Rozanov’s PR problem.

“I’m glad, then.”

***

Marlow’s hand clapped on Ilya’s shoulder as he passed him. The narrow aisles of the airplane forced Marlow to shuffle his bulk sideways, allowing him to look at Ilya as he said, “Tough break with the interview, Cap.”

Ilya merely shrugged. What was done was done. No use bitching about it.

Marlow settled in the seat behind him, legs stretching out obnoxiously into the aisle. The flight attendant would scold him, and then he’d put his legs back the minute their backs were turned. Some things never changed.

“I dunno man, I was interested,” Wheeler said, from across the aisle. He was joining them for this roadie, testing out his healed injury. “Learning about Russia and like- the old Russia and police and stuff was cool.”

“The USSR,” Hardy corrected. He was seated one removed from Wheeler’s.

“Whatever,” Wheeler said. “And that shit about like learning English in Russia and how crazy the laws are about gays was nuts.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about, Wheeler?” Ilya certainly had not gone into that level of detail.

“We watched a professor of Russian history explain the context of your interview,” Hardy explained. “Like, culture, politics, that kind of stuff.”

“A professor?” Ilya repeated incredulously. “American professor explaining Russia? You want to know something about Russia, ask me, fuck,” Ilya pointed at himself. “I am actually Russian. Americans and their need to poise as experts in every fucking field.

Hardy shrugged. “You never really talk about it. Russia.”

So angered was he at having Americans trying to talk over his own experiences, he forgot that he very much did not want to talk about Russia. Or being Russian. Or being Russian in America.

“Yes,” Ilya said, going on the offense. “Lesson one. Russians do not talk about Russia. Even you Americans should understand this.”

“Okay, well I have a question,” Wheeler said, “cause these dipshits can’t explain shit to me. What is communism anyway? Like, when you were little, you couldn’t own your own toothbrush?”

“Please ignore him,” Hardy said. “I’ve tried explaining it to him and he doesn’t get it.”

“Ah, because you are such an expert,” Ilya said.

Hardy looked offended. “I took a couple of classes at college.”

Ilya rolled his eyes.

Wheeler slapped Hardy on the knee. “See, this is what I’m talking about. This motherfucker has been trying to explain it with his college shit. I don’t get it. Like- who cares what some German guy wrote down? What I want to know is what Roz thinks.”

“Some German guy?” Ilya asked, thoroughly confused.

Hardy blinked. “Marx.”

Ilya groaned. “Fucking hell,” he said in Russian. In English, “Does everything they teach you in universities come from propaganda?”

Ilya had met an alarming number of Americans who had assumed Marx was a ruler of Russia, or that Russia was still communist, or that Russia had been some sort of communist utopia and needed to drag the western world into their enlightened way of life. Marxism was old and tired when his grandfather was young.

“Probably,” Wheeler said. “This fuckface,” he pointed a thumb at Hardy, “Would believe anyone in a tweed jacket.”

“I don’t give a fuck about any professors or nothing,” Marlow said. “But you’ve got me curious, Roz. What’s Russia like?”

What is Russia like? What an undefinable question. A country with an identity that spanned continents and centuries. Wrapped in religion and mysticism and used to be the cutting edge of science and gender equality. A language so different from English, with a different alphabet, different history.

How was he supposed to explain himself and his story to these idiots with no context?

He remembered the deep, warm, ache he had felt to be understood in his own language.

Ilya heaved a great sigh. “I will tell you what I know.”

The three men lean in, craning their necks to hear over the whirring engine noise.

“My great grandfather was a potato farmer,” Ilya started. “He was very poor, had six children, and he loved the Tsar.”

The story spooled out from there. Not a history found in any American or Russian textbooks, but his own. Never about him, no, no, never about him. But about his forefathers and their deeds. The legends that passed on from father to son, what was important, what they noticed as years ticked by into decades.

Before he could stop himself, the whole of the plane fell silent, spellbound by Ilya Rozanov’s story of Russia. Great uncles who disappeared after speaking out against Russia. Warm hearths and frozen Moscow winters.

Then the years catch up to him, and Ilya found it not so easy to keep the story not being about him. He had talked about his father’s long and illustrious career, the tales that had been impressed upon him and embellished a hundred times. He did not mention his mother. He made it seem as if he had just somehow been born.

Ilya mentioned Public School 596, famous for its military discipline. He painted a picture of the crumbling walls, children spending the last of their money on drugs to escape from the reality of it all.

The last story he had of Public School 596, of watching two boys beat each other black and blue until one of them went up against the metal wall and collapsed. He hadn’t gotten back up again. Never. The teachers hadn’t spared the fight a glance.

He does not describe the cold fear that had gripped him, watching the light leak out of the boy's eyes. The promise he had made to himself, that he would never let that become him. The punchline of the story is how the janitor had complained of the blood on the floor the day after. No one laughs.

“So I begged my father to get me transferred to the Dynamo Moscow school. It was only for the greatest young hockey players in Russia. I played for them for many years. And then I was drafted number 1 for the NHL and moved to America.”

“The end,” Ilya shrugged.

“And they don’t teach you that in your fuckass university classes,” Wheeler added.

“I think you might be the coolest person who has ever lived, Roz,” one of the rookies said solemnly.

“This, I knew already,” Ilya laughed.

And his team, his only family in America, understands him just that little bit better. The reason Ilya fought harder, trained longer, had more riding on this then the rest of them.

He had to. Everything else was noise.

Chapter End Notes

As always, I do zero research when it comes to any of the finer details of my fics. I appreciate those who go through and point out the inaccuracies but Im not fixing them bc I do not have the time for that.

Also, allow me to project my own issues onto Shane here lol, so I am sure I missed some stuff about being Asian in Canada specifically (I am neither). What's it like to be mixed in an all white culture, and then the only connection you have to your "other side" also sees you as white? Wants to run away from it also? What then? How are you supposed to feel when you yourself don't feel 'Asian enough'? What happens when your mom won't talk about it? Are you allowed to be offended?

What does it mean when your family has completely integrated into Canadian society?

I think part of the reason Shane is so uneasy all the time is bc he doesn't have certainty in his identity as Asian or gay. Like he would never (at this stage) feel comfortable at Pride bc hes not proud- he doesn't "feel gay" he's just attracted to men. He doesn't have gay friends or gay culture and doesn't feel connected in that way. I think the same applies to his cultural identity.

Ilya is, of course, his opposite. Deeply understanding of his culture and the burdens it comes with. It follows him constantly and he can't escape it so he doesn't try. He leans into the Russia of it all. He likes the music and the food and shoving it into people's faces. He feels confident in his own cultural identity.

Shane doesn't have this option. He must fully lean into being Canada's golden boy because there isn't another option for him.

My analysis and projecting of my own issues lol. Hope you enjoy the chapter! I enjoy each and every comment lol.

The conversation with Ilya and his teammates is directly inspired by a comment someone left about how typical it is for Americans to make themselves the authority on everything. Also the stuff about his schooling is inspired by a real comment made by Alexander Ovechkin about his early life. From Wikipedia:

"In early childhood, he moved with his family to a tall high-rise building surrounded by a "crumbling neighborhood" on the outskirts of Moscow. There he attended public school No. 596, infamous for military discipline and a "tyrannical" principal, completing eight and a half grades before starting at Dynamo Moscow's sports school. While he saw his friends "getting high and getting dead," Ovechkin was attending daily training sessions morning and night. "You dive into sport with your head and arms and legs, and there's no time for anything else," he said of this early training"

Works inspired by this one