Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Underage Sex

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, No beta we just have to keep living with it I guess, Inaccurate Ice Hockey, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Semi-Public Sex, POV Alternating, Minor Violence, Self-Discovery, Minor Ilya Rozanov/Others, Rivals to ???, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Slow Burn, Tension, Staring at each other instead of talking, Internalized Homophobia, Denial of Feelings, Bruises, Shane Hollander vs the Social Construct of Virginity, Underage Smoking, Minor Shane Hollander/Others, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Angst with a Hopeful Ending

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Plexiglass Box

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-20 Completed: 2026-04-01 Words: 109,385 Chapters: 13/13

Plexiglass Box

Summary

Moscow, 2007.

Ilya wasn’t expecting that along with a new assistant coach, he’d also be getting a new teammate for the summer. Shane Hollander turns out to be only one in the rink who can keep up with him. The tension between them builds fast, and it doesn’t just spill over the boards. It follows them home.

 
Or: The thing with Ilya's coach's son, but it's Shane.

Notes

Hi! I haven't written fiction in like 10 years, much less fanfiction, but Heated Rivalry has grabbed me by the shoulders and hasn't stopped shaking me for almost two months now.

English isn't my native language and I'm probably forgetting a bunch of things that I should be mentioning here and the formatting might be a little fucked up, but how about we just see how it goes?

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Москва, Июль 2007

Ilya knows what he likes, knows what he wants, and he is proud of it. Maybe not proud enough to always say it out loud, but that is because he isn’t stupid. Not because he is ashamed. 

He has an impressive track record when it comes to wanting things, wears hickeys and scratch marks from his latest conquests like medals, displays them like trophies. 

Though there is a distinct difference between his wants when it comes to those indulgences versus hockey. With sex Ilya knows when to stop wanting, knows when to leave the party, when to stop drinking, when to leave after a hook up. With ice hockey on the other hand, there is no end to his wants. He is insatiable when it comes to improving, skating faster, winning competitions, proving to anyone that he is - without a doubt - the best.

Lately, he sometimes misses the thrill of stepping on the ice and being unsure of the outcome, but the satisfaction that comes with the certainty of winning keeps him going. Ilya has found ways to get his thrills elsewhere. He knows what clubs will let him in, which pills are fun, when to leave the house of Andrei’s girlfriend before his brother himself comes over after work. Sex and the feeling of getting away with something complement each other beautifully and Ilya knows exactly how to mix them. He loves to flirt with a bad idea, enjoy it and then move on. 

What he hadn’t calculated for is mixing hockey and sex. He was aware of how horrible the idea was from the second he first thought of it, and yet this time he can’t stop himself. Ilya keeps wanting and it feels like there is a hole in his chest, gaping and aching, expanding and threatening to swallow him whole. 

*****

School is out for the summer and Ilya can’t wait to get busy, schedule packed with hockey practices and parties. He has an especially rigorous training period ahead of him, already preparing for the selection camp for the World Junior Championship this winter. 

He has it all figured out. Work hard, play hard. Ilya knows he’ll be selected for the WJC 2008, and knows he will make captain on top of it. He’ll lead Russia to victory, impress scouts left and right, then get drafted to the NHL in 2009. No matter where in North America he lands, Ilya knows he’ll rule the place just as he does now; king of the ice palace. He loves the club scene in Moscow, the beautiful women throwing themselves at him left and right. Once Ilya makes it out of Russia, his options will be limitless. The way Sasha keeps undressing him with his eyes even now - he would be able to do whatever he wants there.

Ilya is impatient, everything has long since been decided in his opinion. But reality refuses to hurry and catch up with him, so he has to take it step by step. 

Today he will go to practice as he always does, and absolutely dominate as he always does. The only change to his routine is the new assistant coach that will be working with the CSKA’s junior team this summer, starting today. 

*****

Coach Hollander is hot. 

Tall and slender, wiry with sleek dark hair, Asian. It seems the rest of the team agrees, among all the whispers behind him Ilya can clearly hear Pavlovich mumbling “MILF”. 

Ilya heard that hiring Yuna Hollander was a political decision, one that his father had complained about endlessly, but this is the first time CSKA employed a female coach, so there had to be more to it. Her credentials seem impressive enough, world championships under her belt, part of the coaching staff that led Canada’s women’s hockey team to Gold twice in the Olympics, 2002 and 2006. 

Ilya tries his best to translate her introduction in his head, his English isn’t the best but he has a handful of foreign teammates and knows he’ll have to work on it once he gets drafted into the NHL. Either way, he catches her candidly stating that she is married to some Canadian diplomat, and that she is here temporarily because he has business in Moscow. 

What Ilya could not have predicted is that on top of the new assistant coach, there is a potential new team mate. Not for actual competitions, but coach Hollander is insisting her son will join them for their practices and training camps over the summer. 

At that a short boy jumps the boards from the penalty box, skating up to stand beside coach Hollander. Ilya hadn’t noticed him first, too busy catching up with teammates and listening to the staff’s announcements. 

The boy definitely resembles his mother, dark eyes and dark hair. Ilya thinks he looks too skinny to be a half-decent hockey player, but there is something about him that makes Ilya’s eyes linger. 

Freckles stretch over his nose and cheeks, hundreds of little dots decorating his face, thinning out towards his forehead and chin. Ilya is struck with the invasive desire to grab the boy and count them. 

“My name is Shane. You can call me Hollander, or Hollzy”, he says with a monotone voice that matches his expressionless face. Ilya wonders whether he is nervous or bored, or whether he feels absolutely nothing.

Amazing captain that Ilya is, he slides forward a bit and greets the two newcomers on behalf of his team, “Добро пожаловать!”

He looks at coach Hollander with a winning smile when he says “We look forward working together”, and shakes her hand. Then Ilya turns to her son and says “Давай посмотрим, на что ты способен,” lifting the right corner of his mouth into a smirk and offering him his hand as well. 

Hollander seems to hesitate just a moment before lifting his own hand to shake Ilya’s. As soon as their palms clasp together, determination flashes his dark eyes, intense and electric, sending a buzz through Ilya and making him grin. 

Interesting.

*****

Coach Hollander fits right in with head coach Kharlamov and the other assistant coaches. After leaving the team to warm up, she starts them off on a set of drills that gets increasingly sadistic as they go on. The only difference so far is that she’s not yelling. Her face is set in a pleasant smile, looking on as she tortures them.

Maybe, Ilya thinks, she is trying to see how far she can push them. They have been bag skating for way too long now, and while some of his teammates seem to be slowly running out of steam, Shane Hollander just keeps on gliding over the ice, serene as anything. He is fast, his movements are efficient and he shows no signs of fatigue. But neither does Ilya, he keeps up. 

Hollander notices, and Ilya notices him noticing. 

Their eyes meet as they pass each other and the electric buzzing Ilya felt earlier is back. He is vibrating with a strange kind of exhilaration he had not previously encountered. 

And it doesn’t stop. 

After a brief intermission, the last point on the agenda for the day is a small scrimmage. Coach Hollander wants to see them in action, and Kharlamov divides them into teams and lines. Ilya gets his usual spot, starting center, flanked by Nikolai Galkin and Kirill Lipovsky. To his delight, Kharlamov makes Shane Hollander the other starting center, on a line with Radoslav Tóth and Mikhail Sokolov. Ilya can only speculate about Hollander’s actual skill with the puck, but other than that it seems like a fairly even match up. 

They line up at the central face-off circle, and Ilya finds himself confronted with Hollander’s freckles once more. There’s a range of different shades, and something inside of Ilya makes him feel like a pot boiling over, whistling. 

“Не позорь меня, Розанов” Kharlamov grumbles, giving Ilya a pointed look as he prepares to start the game.

“Good luck” Ilya smirks at Hollander. The other boy’s eyes bore into him, and briefly drop to his mouth as Ilya speaks.

“Don’t need it.” Hollander says, and then the puck drops. 

Hollander wins the face-off, snatching the puck at a speed Ilya could not have expected and taking off. He passes to Sokolov, but Ilya is right there to intercept as Sokolov tries to pass back. Ilya speeds off in the other direction, Hollander right behind him. When he passes to Galkin, Hollander slams him into the boards. The two of them are head to head for the rest of the scrimmage. Every time Ilya and Hollander are pitted against each other both of them go all out, their linemates barely keeping up. 

When Ilya has the chance to return the favor of slamming Hollander against the boards, the shorter boy lets out a gasp, which in turn makes Ilya want to growl. Instead, he bites his own tongue. He is half-hard under his jockstrap, feels wired and when the game ends with Ilya’s team winning, he has to suppress the urge to laugh. 

It’s been so long since playing hockey felt like this. 

No, screw that, playing hockey has never ever felt like this before, and Ilya can’t get enough. 

He’s out of breath and bathed in sweat, and all he wants to do is keep going. Wants to cross check Hollander, wants to steal the puck from him, wants to outskate him at every turn. 

When his eyes find Hollander again the other boy is a few meters across the ice from him, chest heaving, face flushed and sweat dripping down his chin. His helmet is off and his sleek dark hair is sticking up wildly. Hollander’s mouth is open and wet as he’s panting. He’s looking back at Ilya, and then he smiles.

He stays on the ice for a few minutes after the others head out to the locker room, skating idle circles to calm himself down a bit before he has to go take off his gear. When Ilya finally makes it to his locker, Hollander has occupied the previously empty stall to the right of Ilya’s. The dark haired boy is already showered, zipping up his bag. He acknowledges Ilya with a nod, then heads out without saying anything.

*****

Once Hollander is gone, the noise in the locker room ramps up. The team’s opinions on their new comrade are split, opinions on their new assistant coach less so. The overall consensus is that coach Hollander is a hardass, but that it’s too early to tell whether she has any actual skill. The majority also agrees that she is smoking hot for someone who is mom-aged, and that women in general have no business coaching a men’s team. It’s only temporary though, so they’ll accept it, provided she proves herself.

As for coach Hollander’s son, most of the guys are annoyed at being shown up. Tóth says that he likes Hollander, but Tóth likes all the non-Russians on the team by default. Volkin, who had been the goalie for Ilya’s team during the scrimmage, complains about Hollander’s slapshots, saying they’re almost as bad as Ilya’s. Abramov gets halfway through a racist comment before he is cut-off by Lipovsky’s elbow lodging itself into his solar plexus. 

When things calm down again, Nikolai approaches Ilya. 

“It was bad enough having one of you, Ilyukha, but I don’t know how we will handle another!” He puts his hand on his captain’s shoulder and laughs, showing off the gap where one of his upper incisors is missing (courtesy of Ilya Rozanov, oops). 

“Get your face fixed, Kolya”, Ilya says with an eye roll, playfully shoving his friend with his shoulder. 

*****

The next practice is similar. Coach Hollander tortures them with a sweet, motherly smile on her face that apparently melts into a stern, somewhat sour expression when she is confronted with insubordination or lack of skill. 

Ilya can feel Shane Hollander’s eyes on him every once in a while. It makes him feel bold, and when Hollander is on the bench, Ilya may or may not be making some calculations. Maybe he uses his skills in predicting the next moves in the game to his advantage, maybe he lets Abramov slam him into the boards right in front of Hollander - who’s to say? 

His new coach's son is observing him closely through the plexiglass, but he doesn’t react. Hollander’s dark eyes don't widen on impact, his face remains impassive as ever. Maybe he had made all the same calculations as Ilya and then some. The thought infuriates Ilya almost as much as it excites him. Their eyes meet for what couldn't be more than a fraction of a second but is long enough for his face to burn itself into Ilya's brain. Dark hair, smooth skin, the curve of his mouth. Ilya wants to strangle him, lick his freckles and defeat him. The mix of attraction and animosity leaves him tingling all over, and he wonders whether Hollander feels it too.

*****

Later that night, Ilya finds himself lying on Sveta’s bed while she gets ready to go out. She’s applying a sticky-looking lipgloss while swaying to music that’s playing from a small, tinny-sounding speaker on her desk, where Sasha is sitting. 

Ilya had completely missed him that afternoon, but apparently Sasha had come to watch his practice (and was not pleased with Ilya’s indifference towards him). He is coach Kharlamov’s son, and as such has access to a lot of extra information on Ilya’s new coach and teammate. He also has a lot of opinions. 

“Apparently, this Hollander kid is Canada’s Ilya or something.” Sasha scoffs, “What a joke. Like, he’s good or whatever, but he has, like, zero charisma. Father says he and his mother are a pain in his ass, but apparently the kid has already been pre-selected for the championship games next year.” - Ilya raises his eyebrow at that, maybe Canada did things differently from Russia. 

Sasha keeps gossiping, exasperated. Ilya lets his gaze travel up Sasha’s obscenely long legs, appreciating the tight pants he’s in while doing his best to tune out his slightly grating voice. When Sasha notices, he blushes and his monologue stutters to a halt, but then he smirks at Ilya. 

“I don’t know”, Sveta says, finally satisfied with her lip makeup and turning towards the boys, “I looked him up, he’s more than just good. Awkward for sure, but also kinda hot.” 

Ilya can’t help but chuckle at the face Sasha makes in response to Sveta’s assessment. 

“What? I’d fuck him”, she shrugs, faux innocence in her smile as she watches Sasha get more and more irritated. 

Ilya leaves them to bicker back and forth, while Sveta finishes dressing. She is the daughter of Sergei Vetrov, a famous goalie with close ties to the CSKA. The three of them have known each other for years, practically grew up together. Maybe that’s why she so casually drops her dress to the floor to switch it for another one. Or maybe she just gets off on exposing herself. 

Probably it’s both, and Ilya loves her for it. 

When they finally make it out of the door to go pregame with some of Sveta’s friends, Ilya kisses her. It’s playfully aggressive, her lipstick is indeed sticky and tastes like artificial cherries. Sasha looks at him with hooded eyes, licking his own lips. Sveta punches his arm before grabbing both of the boys by the hand and dragging them towards the car that’s waiting for them.

*****

Ilya thinks he’ll probably never stop being impressed by Sveta. All it takes is a sweet smile, a little pout, a fluttering of her lashes and the bouncer steps aside for them. No ID checks, no entry fee. 

The music isn’t exactly to Ilya’s taste but he knows Sveta and Sasha are into it, and who is he to deny them? Ilya can dance to anything, can make any sort of dancing dirty and that is what it’s all about. He dances with both of them for a while, Sveta in the middle at first, then Sasha, then Ilya. Sasha leans into his back, tucks his head over Ilya’s shoulder, whispers something that is too low for Ilya to actually pick up. 

He knows what it’s about though, knows that Sasha has been wanting Ilya to fuck him for years now, knows that he’s hoping tonight’s the night. 

Ilya considers it, wants it too. Sasha is pretty, tall and skinny, dark hair and dark eyes that suddenly seem more magnetic than they did last week. But they’re here with other friends besides Sveta. More than that, Ilya has to admit that the thrill of fucking his head coach’s son pales in comparison to electricity he’d felt between himself and his assistant coach’s kid on the ice earlier today. The appeal isn’t worth the risk, at least not tonight, so Ilya does what he does best and stops wanting. 

Later that night, Ilya pulls a girl with brown eyes and sleek black hair into an alcove with him. He has no clue what her name might be, but it doesn’t matter, she’s a good kisser and can’t seem to get enough of his hands on her. 

When he guides her down to her knees and she wraps her lips around his cock, he wonders what she would look like with freckles on her cheeks. 

Ilya feels the hysterical laughter bubbling up again and bites his lip.

*****

That night kicks off a pattern that Ilya wants to continue, simply because he doesn’t want to start wondering what he would end up doing without this outlet. It riles him up, he knows he should be at least a little bit scared but instead he feels giddy. It’s a horrible, delightful little game, trying to see which aspects of Shane Hollander he can find in random girls on random nights. He enjoys them while simultaneously bemoaning all the other elements they’re missing. 

It's not enough but for now Ilya can at least go on and pretend that it is.

*****

At practice two weeks later, pretending gets a lot harder when Shane and Ilya are set to play together on the same line for the first time during a scrimmage. So far they've mostly found themselves pitted against each other, and suddenly not only being on the same team but having to work together seems daunting. 

Coach Hollander has the whole team switching positions during practice, to improve their “mental flexibility” or something along those lines. Ilya gets it, even though he thinks that her explanation is nonsensical. They’re supposed to learn how to consider all different aspects of the game. It's not the first time they've ever done it, but still, it turns out that Yuna Hollander is excellent at spotting their flaws and ruthless when it comes to pointing them out. 

Abramov, who is usually on the ice as a left-wing defenseman, finds himself now occupying the position of a center. Ilya can't help but roll his eyes, watching from the bench. Abramov is good at defending, but sucks as a forward. He’s big and bulky, and while he usually has solid control of the puck, he's struggling to handle it at the speed that is required in his new position. When coach Kharlamov and coach Hollander both point it out, Ilya notices a snarl tugging at Abramov’s lips. 

Ilya himself cycles through positions as well, briefly wondering whether anyone expects him to play goalie as well, but that would be silly. After left-wing defense and right-wing forward, he ends up back as center for the last round of their game. Kolya is on his line too, but now to his left where he’s usually on Ilya’s right. 

He can already feel it in his gut somehow, but still Ilya freezes briefly upon turning his head the other way to find out who his right-winger will be. It would have had to happen sooner or later, but he’s displeased anyhow. 

Shane Hollander is rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck to Ilya’s right, getting into position. When Hollander notices Ilya looking at him, he nods at him. The shorter boy seems tense, his eyes are just a bit narrower than usual, his jaw is clenched. 

Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, Hollander and Ilya playing on the same line together ends up being a complete disaster. It seems like neither of the two boys can quit trying to fight the other instead of working together. They don't pass when they should, their speed is out of sync, Ilya fucks up a shot at the goal that he should have easily made. He’s furious already 30 seconds into the period, and only gets angrier as it goes on, their playing just keeps getting worse somehow.

After that last period, they're all gathered around to receive some more detailed feedback from the coaches. Ilya feels ready to explode. 

Ilya already expected harsh feedback from Coach Kharlamov, but at the same time he wasn't prepared at all. He expected more yelling, but Kharlamov is clearly trying to keep up appearances as much as he can, speaking in Russian to leave coach Hollander out of the conversation. It doesn’t matter much though, his tone is absolutely acidic, burning a hole right through Ilya.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Rozanov? Volkin was wide open, and still you miss? Your little playground feud with that kid is going too far, it makes you play like a bitch. I expected better, but clearly that makes me an idiot. You better fix this, because my team has no room for embarrassments.”

Coach Hollander is more diplomatic in her feedback, not having understood Kharlamov’s Russian, but it comes down to the same points. Ilya is supposed to be a captain and a generational talent on top of that, he needs to learn to work with unfamiliar players, needs to stay out of his own head when things aren't going the way he wants them to, blah blah blah.

Another thing Ilya doesn't expect is for Coach Hollander to drop her neutral tone when the time comes to give feedback to her own son. She sounds tense in the same way that Kharlamov did when speaking to Ilya, like she too takes Shane Hollander's failure as a personal insult.

Ilya can't make it all out, her voice sounds low and pressed with some French interspersed that throws him off, but he gets the gist.

“Shane, I thought we talked about this. You can't be a whole team all by yourself. It doesn't matter how fast you can go if you end up with no one to pass to. And I told you a dozen times, fix your backhand, that was sloppy.” 

Kharlamov holds back on critiquing a player that isn't technically on his own team. Probably afraid to give away secrets to the competition or something like that, the suspicious bastard. 

“Backhand is weak, teamwork not good”, is all he says to Hollander.

When the little feedback session is finally over the team is dismissed and most of the players sigh in relief as they make their way to the locker room. Ilya lingers for a while, still trying to compute how things could have gone so abysmally wrong today. He stares down at the ice like it will give him the answer.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers Hollander's voice, and when he looks up the other boy is speaking to his mother, freckled face twisted in displeasure.

Coach Hollander sighs, shrugs and leaves the rink while her son stays behind. For a moment, it's only Ilya and Hollander on the ice. Hollander looks like he wants to say something, opens his mouth and then closes it again a couple of times, then seems to give up. Ilya turns towards the lockers as Hollander starts to set up what looks like shooting drills for himself.

*****

Ilya’s gear feels like it weighs a hundred kilos as he slowly starts to take it off. His team mates must sense his mood, not even Kolya tries to approach him to cheer him up or make light of the situation. By the time he finally makes it to the showers most of the others have already left. So he stands there, naked, by himself, and turns up the temperature so far it hurts. Ilya leans his head against the tiles, touches the cross on his necklace and prays for the hot water to wash the day off of him. But it doesn’t, his prayer goes unanswered.

Ilya is late already, so he will be in trouble once he gets home anyways. But he can’t bear the idea of going home to face Andrei and his father after this horrible practice just yet. So, since trouble is waiting for him either way, he does what he usually does on days like this. 

The shower didn’t succeed in burning the skin off of him, unfortunately, so he dries himself off and puts on his clothes. He pats down the pockets of his basketball shorts to make sure his wallet and cigarettes are in there, and then moves to abandon his equipment bag in his stall while he goes on his quest.

Ilya knows the way to the shitty old vending machine at the other side of the building blind. He drags himself there without really having to think of where he is going, his thoughts still stuck on today’s failure. He mindlessly retrieves a few rubles from his wallet and pushes them into the machine’s coin slot before selecting #24, Coca Cola. Ilya frowns at the number, feels like the universe is casually mocking him, waits for the rumbling of the machine to cease, and then bends down to retrieve his can. 

The coke is warm, as always. He can’t remember the cooling in this vending machine ever having worked before. Room temperature coke is inferior to cold coke, but the familiarity of it is comforting. 

Ilya pockets the coke and moves on to take the closest exit out of the building. The air outside is still warm even though the sun has already set. He thanks god that today isn’t too humid then pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up and inhaling deeply. It helps, but it doesn’t calm him down the same way it usually does. He feels weirdly raw but doesn’t know what to do about it, so he just moves on. 

Ilya walks back around the outside of the ice palace to the player entrance near the lockers and leans against the wall there, taking a last drag of his cigarette before he drops it and stomps it out. Then he retrieves the coke bottle from his shorts, cracks the tab open and drinks. It helps more than the cigarette did, but can’t make the raw feeling go away either. 

*****

Well then, time to go and face the music, or whatever.

Ilya opens the door and drops the empty can in the first trash bin he comes across on his way back to the lockers.

He pushes the large door to the home team locker room open and walks through it, only to come to a stop when he notices he’s not alone. 

Right… Great.

Shane Hollander is standing by the stall next to Ilya’s, pulling his shirt down over his head. Ilya catches a glimpse of smooth skin before it disappears under the fabric, and then the irritation he had tried to soothe is back where it was before, buzzing under his skin. 

“Hollander”, Ilya nods at the other boy, distaste obvious in his voice. 

“Rozanov”, Hollander nods back. As always, his face seems blank, but there’s an edge to his voice as well. And that edge pokes right at the raw spot inside of Ilya.

The tension between them is almost palpable, and Ilya straightens his spine as he steps towards Hollander, who in turn is squaring up his shoulders. Ilya reaches into his stall and fumbles with the zipper on his equipment bag, he really should just let this go and leave. But Hollander is right here, in his space, in his locker room and getting into a fight with him is much more attractive than the fight that awaits Ilya at home with his father. He wants to get under Hollander’s skin the same way Hollander seems to be getting under his. Wants to find his soft spots and poke back. 

Ilya turns towards the other boy and smirks when he says “Next time you play better, да?”

There is a twitch and then obvious displeasure spreads across Hollander’s face. Ilya is almost surprised, he thought it would take more than that. 

“Don’t want to upset Mama, да?” Ilya is poking, and clearly he’s hit the right spot with that.

“How about you play better next time? Learn how to fucking pass, set a good example. Captain,” the venom in Hollander’s voice is honey-sweet to Ilya’s ears. The way he spits out the last word, captain, it’s perfect really. The perfect excuse for Ilya to shove at Hollander’s shoulder and escalate things further. 

“I know pass and I know backhand. Think I will be fine, but maybe need to teach you.” And that does it.

”Oh fuck off, man”, there is a flash of rage and heat in Hollander’s eyes as he shoves Ilya back against a locker. The sound of the impact startles both of them, but Ilya thinks part of the surprise in Hollander's eyes is due to having shoved someone in the first place.

Still, he keeps his palms pressing into Ilya to keep him where he is, the anger winning out over the shock.

“I don't get what your fucking problem is!” he spits.

“Problem?” Ilya asks tensely, he wraps his fingers around Hollander's wrists and pushes back, turning to reverse their positions. 

“Ты и есть проблема, блядь,” Ilya hisses, looking down at Hollander who now has his back pressed against the lockers instead of Ilya. Hollander really isn't that short, but Ilya still has several centimeters on him. They’re too close like this, the proximity makes Ilya feel like he’s back to standing in scalding water.

“God, fuck you! You just can't deal with someone else being better than you!” Hollander is glaring up at Ilya. His eyes impossibly seem both darker and brighter than usual. Pupils wide, irises glowing. Hollander’s lashes are pitch black. There is a prominent freckle right under his lower lash line on the left side of his face. Ilya knows he should put some distance between them, but he doesn’t want to. 

Acting purely on impulse, Ilya lets go of one of Hollander's wrists and lifts his hand to the other boy's face. Hollander's free hand immediately grabs hold of Ilya's collar, ready to fight. Ilya doesn’t hit him, though it’s clear that is what Hollander expected. Instead he grabs Hollander by the jaw, presses his thumb and forefinger into the freckled cheeks, lifts his head up to look him in the eyes.

“You are dreaming.” Ilya may lack the words to express the sentiment adequately, but the arrogance is written all over his face, making it obvious what he means. 

Hollander says nothing for a moment that stretches into half an eternity. They keep glaring at each other, Ilya holding Hollander in place, Hollander’s hand just below Ilya's throat. Ilya is still keenly aware of the buzzing sensation that pricks at him more and more the longer the eye contact lasts. His mouth feels dry, he knows his heart is pounding and he wonders if Hollander can feel it where his right hand is still pressed against Ilya’s chest. Because Ilya is absolutely aware of the pulse jumping under his fingertips where his hand encircles Hollander's wrist. 

His gaze drops to Hollander's mouth for a fraction of a second when the other boy’s tongue darts out to lick over his lower lip. 

Looking back up into his eyes, Ilya understands. 

This is Hollander issuing a challenge.

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, but Ilya moves before he can reconsider. 

His mouth crashes into Hollander's, hard enough to bruise. Ilya takes all the rage he can't put into words the other will understand and puts it into the kiss instead. He runs his tongue over Hollander's lip like the other boy had done just a moment ago, then bites him. 

Hollander gasps at the pain, mouth opening slightly but he’s not kissing back.

Fuck. Ilya read this all wrong. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He pulls back abruptly to find Hollander blinking up at him. 

Fuckkkkkkk.

Before Ilya can say anything to either defend himself or apologize, before he can drop his hand from where it still rests on Hollander's jaw, he gets tugged forward.

This time it's Ilya's run to kiss back, and he doesn't hesitate for even a breath, nipping at Hollander’s lips and sliding his tongue against him. Hollander's one hand is still fisted up in Ilya's shirt, the other presses fingertips into his chest. Ilya lets go of the wrist he had still been holding onto, boldly grabbing at Hollander's waist instead. Hollander releases his shirt, now seemingly reassured that Ilya won't pull back again, and slides both hands up to Ilya's shoulders. His fingers dig into Ilya's skin so hard, Ilya is sure it will bruise. The thought makes him grin a bit as he licks into Hollander's mouth.

Ilya's other hand had let go of Hollander's jaw at some point and is now in his hair instead. 

When Ilya tugs on it, the other boy moans into the kiss. 

The noise makes Ilya feel like he is burning up. Maybe he's the one dreaming, because this definitely could be fever dream material.

He tugs again, tilting Hollander's head back to deepen the kiss even further, and pushes closer into him. Hollander's body heat seeps through his clothes, stoking the fire that Ilya is suddenly convinced has been burning since the moment they met.

When he feels Hollander's hands at his hips, he again thinks that he may have taken it too far. Instead of pushing him away though, Hollander pulls Ilya closer. Now Ilya is the one gasping, his hard dick pushing up against Hollander's crotch, the friction is delicious torture. 

Hollander takes full advantage of Ilya’s momentary distraction, shifts his balance and before the Russian can register what is happening, he’s the one being pushed into the lockers again. 

Something in Ilya wants to protest, but Hollander rocks their hips together again, this time making a desperate little noise that Ilya swallows greedily.

The kiss is a struggle for dominance, they push their tongues against each other, sucking and biting. Spit gets pushed back and forth, leaking out between them, running down his chin. It should be gross, honestly, but Ilya can't really think about that right now because he's too busy being turned on by it. 

Hollander keeps letting out these breathy, needy little noises and they’re making Ilya feel dizzy with how much he wants more of it. He drops his hand from Hollander's waist to his ass, pushing their hips even closer together, holding him there as he tentatively begins grinding against the other boy.

The movement pulls a shuddering moan from Hollander, who leans into it, fingers are now playing with the waistband of Ilya’s shorts. When Ilya makes a noise of approval in response to the unasked question, he can feel Hollander shiver against him. And then finally, the other boy starts sliding his hand down Ilya’s boxers to touch his aching dick.

There's a pleased gasp passing from Ilya’s mouth to Hollander's, and it's answered with a delighted little hum.

It's obvious that Hollander hasn't touched anyone else's dick before this, but neither has Ilya. It can't be that different from touching your own dick, he thinks at first. Hollander’s fingertips are dancing over his length and it feels like little fireworks going off wherever they land, proving Ilya wrong. This is absolutely different from masturbation.

Hell, this is different from any other handjob Ilya’s ever received before today.

While he’s enjoying the sensation, he can’t let himself be one-upped, so Ilya hooks his finger into the waistbands of Hollander's shorts and underwear. He considers pulling back a little to check in, but with how Hollander is pressing him against the lockers, there is no way for him to move. So he takes the Canadian’s little hums as a sign of his consent before pulling his pants down just enough to free his hard dick. Hollander gasps at that, and then gasps again immediately as Ilya wraps his fingers around him. Ilya could never get tired of that sound.

Hollander's fingers have been carefully skating up and down Ilya’s length so far, but now he moves his hand to emulate Ilya’s grip on his cock. Ilya pushes his own shorts down further to give Hollander more room to touch him.  

He is dimly aware it shouldn't feel this good. Ilya’s had objectively better kisses, handjobs and sex before. But he doesn't think he's ever wanted it quite this bad. Maybe that should make him feel ashamed, but instead it makes him feel powerful, because that Hollander is desperate for him too. It feeds his ego, every little noise and touch makes him want more and more and more.

Ilya moves his hand up and down Hollander's dick in a steady rhythm, and notices that at some point they must have broken their kiss, because now they're leaning forehead to forehead, looking down between them and panting. Hollander's dick is leaking an impressive amount of precum, drooling all over itself and Ilya wants to squeal in delight. He doesn’t, but instead he swipes his thumb through the liquid beading at Hollander's slit, spreading it over the flushed head with a twist of his wrist and now Hollander's moans are ringing quiet but clear through the space between them, no longer muffled by Ilya's mouth.

The rush Ilya gets from this is better than any high. Hollander keeps up in tandem with him, determined to match his tempo. He's biting his lip in concentration and Ilya wonders whether he realizes just how fucked out he looks right now. A dark blush is spreading from his cheeks all the way down his neck, probably beyond where his collarbones disappear into his shirt. His eyes dark and shiny, focused and yet somehow looking out of it. Lips red and swollen, drool smeared over his chin.

God, Ilya wants to come over all over his stupid freckles, but he knows he won't last long enough to progress to anything like that.

Instead, he shifts his hips so that their dicks are lined up, bumping against each other. He takes his hand off Hollander’s dick for a moment and is rewarded with a beautifully desperate whine. Ilya looks deep into Hollander's eyes as he lifts the hand up further, then lets a thick glob of spit slide off his tongue to drip onto his palm. Hollander’s face twitches, Ilya reads disgust there, but it's overpowered by desire. He angles his hand towards Hollander and jerks his chin forward, urging him to add his own spit to the mix.

Hollander closes his eyes at that. Lashes resting against his freckled cheeks as he seems to consider it. He closes his parted lips for a second, and then opens his mouth again to drool into Ilya's palm. Ilya watches in awe, mesmerized, taking in every detail and committing into memory. His dick twitches in Hollander's hand.

Then Hollander opens his eyes again and Ilya wonders if his own pupils are just as big before drops his gaze back down to where their dicks are rubbing together. He stretches his fingers and slowly wraps his spit-covered hand around both of them. There's an impatient whine coming from Hollander.

“Так отчаянно…” Ilya mumbles, his voice sounds deep and scratchy, breathless. 

His fingers brush against Hollander's wrist where he is still touching Ilya’s cock, and Hollander moves his hand over Ilya's at the contact. 

When Ilya finally starts to move his hand again, Hollander breathes out, whispers something the Ilya thinks must be French, and shudders. Their spit on Ilya’s palm is mixing with Hollander's precum, making the glide slicker, easier, better. 

Ilya can see Hollander unraveling more and more with every stroke, and he knows he must look the same. He grits his teeth, staving off his own orgasm while he keeps moving his and Hollander's hand up and down their dicks. Hollander is grinding into him, into the touch and against his dick. The little “uhn, uhn, uhn” noises he's making are getting higher and louder. 

Watching Shane Hollander come is like watching a rubber band stretch and snap in slow motion. His eyebrows draw together and he tries to bite his lip to keep quiet, but he isn’t too successful with that. It looks like he's trying to keep his half-lidded eyes from rolling back into his head, until a groan manages to slip through his teeth despite his best efforts. Ilya can see his eyes start to roll up as his lids fall shut, and suddenly his mouth is on Ilya’s again. 

Hollander comes in Ilya’s hand with an obscene noise that vibrates against Ilya’s tongue.

It almost feels like Ilya can taste it.

It feels like the rubber band snaps against his own skin and then Ilya is coming too. Groaning, he strokes himself and Hollander through it until the other boy makes a little keening noise from the overstimulation. 

They break apart then, breathing hard in the cramped space between their faces for a while. Hollander's eyes look glazed, and Ilya wonders whether he could get away with kissing him again. He wants to. Wants it so bad that he’s starting to lean again when Hollander’s eyes suddenly widen. 

“Oh fuck” Hollander says and the glazed look disappears, replaced by sheer panic. He recoils as though Ilya’s hands were suddenly burning him. His lower lip wobbles and he pulls his shorts back up. He's standing there for a moment, staring at Ilya like he wants him to say something, but Ilya has lost all of his words. 

Before he can even try to find them, Hollander is across the room, grabbing his bag and running out of the locker room. 

Ilya lets his head drop back against the locker. Then he moves it forward again to slam it back with more force. Pretending not to want this seems impossible now.

“Бля…” 

Chapter End Notes

I wrote this because I thought "Okay, but what if Shane had been the first man Ilya was with, instead of his coach's son?" and then that quickly escalated to "What if Shane was Ilya's coach's son?" and here we are.
I have no idea where I'm going with this, but I've been enjoying the ride so far. Writing this is way more fun than working on my thesis (oops).

Random anecdote; I went to see my parents for Christmas and was reminded that I'm actually from a hockey town. My old high school is next to the rink, and when going out with my some friends while I was home there was at least one mention of something hockey-related per hour. So, shout-out to my home team, they're kinda having a shit season but oh, well. Now that I live in a country that isn't really interested in ice hockey, I kinda miss it.

Let me know what you guys think!

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Get ready for some of Shane's POV and two idiots handling the same crisis in different, yet similar ways.

Moscow, July 2007

Shane isn’t entirely sure how he got back home, his mind is a mess. He thinks he probably took a taxi, like he usually does. Either way he is home now - or rather, he’s back at the Moscow apartment where his family is staying for the summer. 

When he unlocks the door and walks through the hallway he can see his parents on the couch, watching a movie. They haven’t noticed Shane yet and it takes him an insane amount of focus and energy to clear his throat and say “I’m back. Going to bed. Good night,” before bolting up the stairs to where his bedroom is. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his mother open her mouth, but he’s gone before she can say anything. It’s fine. They’ll just write this off as typical teenage behavior. 

As soon as Shane is through the door, he locks it behind himself, then sinks to the floor, sitting with his back against it. He clenches his eyes shut, puts his hands over his ears and purses his lips. Everything is too much, he is shaking and it feels like some kind of autopilot function has just been turned off, leaving him confronted with having to navigate his own emotions without assistance or protection or someone else to blame. 

He wants to scream but instead he tries his best to focus on his breathing. It takes a little while to get the rhythm right, but then Shane is counting along in his head; 4 seconds to inhale, 7 seconds to hold his breath, 8 seconds to slowly exhale. Over and over until he no longer feels like his own thoughts are trying to bash his brain in. The lift of his diaphragm, the expansion and contraction of his lungs, the wooden floor beneath him. He is okay. He is safe.

He clearly has a problem here, but problems can be solved.

In a weird way, he tells himself, this is a hockey problem - and Shane is great at solving those, thank you very much. 

So he approaches it the same as he usually does, and the first step usually is to identify what actually happened. 

Shane lets his head fall back against the door, taking one more deep breath before he opens his eyes again. 

What happened was this; he fucked up. 

… Well, that is probably a bit too imprecise. 

The first thing that happened was that he was put on a line with Rozanov for the first time during practice today, and it went terribly. Shane is pretty sure he hasn’t played this bad since he was maybe 10, and it fills him with shame. His mother was right, he played selfishly during that last period, and it fucked up the whole flow. The two periods before that had been fine, he’d started as center, which always goes well, and the second period as a defenseman was decent too. Sure, he’s not familiar with the team and there’s the whole language barrier thing, but it’s been going alright so far. 

Shane isn’t the most perceptive when it comes to social cues, but he knows that quite a few of the players are less than happy to have him, even though it’s just for the summer. Still, they hadn’t let it influence things on the ice so far. He’s even had some pretty positive interactions with a few of them by now. 

Lipovsky, one of the left-wingers, is pretty nice. He makes an effort to speak English when Shane is around, even though he’s not great at it, and his chirps are clever but never go too far. 

And then there’s Radoslav Tóth, also a forward, who Shane clicked with from the first scrimmage they played together. Tóth is originally from Slovakia, his English is great and Shane likes how he manages to be simultaneously funny and serious. Last week, they went out to have lunch together after a morning practice, and Tóth had told him a bit more about the CSKA junior team and had asked about Shane’s team back at home. 

Shane is getting distracted here. 

The team is fine, the team isn’t the issue. 

The issue is Ilya Rozanov.

However, Shane isn’t exactly sure why Rozanov is an issue. What he does know though is that it’s been this way ever since his first practice here in Moscow. Rozanov had said something in Russian that Shane didn’t understand but was pretty sure was some kind of chirp, and offered him a handshake. Maybe that’s where Shane made his first mistake, because he shook the other’s hand and looked him in the eyes. 

Shane would be embarrassed to admit it out loud, but he’s kinda bad at eye contact. Usually he looks at people’s foreheads or just over their shoulders, it just makes him uncomfortable. 

But with Rozanov, he had looked him in the eyes and had found it hard to stop. There was amusement there, self-confidence and arrogance, and Shane wanted to beat him then. 

Really, Shane had wanted to beat Rozanov since before he even left Ottawa, because he had done some research on the team he was going to spend the summer with. And of course his mother had told him about Rozanov too. 

But actually coming face to face with Rozanov really cemented Shane’s desire to prove himself to the other boy, prove to everyone around them that he was the better player. If he is honest with himself, Shane has never wanted to win against another player this badly before that point.

That had worked out perfectly well for Shane when playing against Rozanov, but ended up being his downfall when suddenly they were supposed to cooperate. 

… and Shane is using the hockey part of his problem to distract himself from the, uh, actually problematic part of the problem. 

Fuck.

The real problem is everything that happened from the moment Rozanov showed back up at the locker room after Shane’s little solo practice. The chirping was fine, objectively, Shane should have known not to take it to heart, but clearly there’s something about Rozanov that lowers his frustration threshold. He definitely should have known better than to shove the other boy, but that’s a forgivable offense. Locker room fights happen all the time. 

No, Shane identifies the first real mistake, and it was not taking his hands off of Rozanov after the shove. He’d just kept them there, somewhere between Rozanov’s chest and shoulders, too aware of the other boy’s body heat seeping through his tank top into Shane’s palms. 

From there it only went downhill. Rozanov has both a height and weight advantage on him, and Shane was too distracted with basically feeling him up, and then suddenly he had his back pressed against the lockers instead. And then there was Rozanov’s hand on his face and wow his hands are big, and Shane should have looked away but didn’t because Rozanov’s eyes look warmer in the locker room lighting than they do out on the ice, and all he wanted was to know what the other boy would dare do next and suddenly his mouth was on Shane’s and - fuck. 

Fuck, why is he getting hard? (Again?)

The next mistake was not stopping it at that point. Shane had been so mad, and then so startled and Rozanov had pulled back, had given him the opportunity, but instead of ending it Shane just went and made yet another mistake by pulling Rozanov back in. 

All of this is so confusing. 

Shane had been angry at other players plenty of times before, and on some very rare occasions he had even picked fights about it. But never before had he been so infuriated he wanted to kiss someone about it. 

Actually, there hasn’t really been anything else in the past 16 years that Shane had wanted to kiss anyone about. The only time it kind of happened was at his classmate Evan’s birthday party earlier this year, where Shane was (forced into) playing spin the bottle and Becky M. had given him a peck on the lips, and that barely counted, and…

… was that Shane’s first real kiss?

*****

His breathing is getting too fast and too shallow again, but it’s hard to control it when his brain is fucking on fire. All the little voices that make up his thoughts are yelling, because what the fuck even is Shane Hollander’s life right now?

A month ago everything was perfectly fine. He was finishing his school year with good grades, he’d had an amazing season on the ice and his mom told him he was basically already selected for the 2008 world junior championship team, half a year before the official selection camp. 

Now, however, he was sitting on the floor in an unfamiliar apartment, halfway across the world, having a nervous breakdown after kissing a rival player.

Maybe, if it had stayed at just kissing, there was some way Shane could work through this but of course, of-fucking-course, it didn’t. Ilya fucking Rozanov gave him a fucking handjob in the fucking locker room of the fucking CSKA ice palace and now there are cum stains on Shane’s t-shirt and he is crying and losing his fucking marbles. 

… 4 seconds to inhale…

… 7 seconds to hold his breath…

… 8 seconds to slowly exhale…

*****

Shane has no idea how long it takes him this time until he’s calm enough to formulate a coherent thought again. 

He can’t go back in time, so unfortunately, he will have to deal with it. 

This was the most impulsive thing Shane’s ever done, which clearly means he needs to work on his impulse control some more. That’s frustrating, because he’s spent basically his whole life so far working on impulse control and he had thought he was getting really good at it. But okay, it’s fine, he’ll work harder, he’s used to hard work. 

Wikipedia says that “a kiss is the touching or pressing of one's lips against another person, animal, or object”. That means that Shane’s first kiss was with Becky M. from his French class when he was 15, at Evan’s parents’ house during Evan’s birthday party. It was not with Ilya fucking Rozanov from the Russian junior ice hockey team his mother is coaching for the summer, when he is currently 16, in the locker room of the arena after a horrible practice.

There, one issue solved. Shane can put the thought into a neat little box and file it away somewhere in the back of his brain, perfectly compartmentalized. 

The whole handjob part of the problem is a bit trickier to tackle. So far the only person to touch Shane’s dick had been Shane - not because he was lacking alternatives, thank you very much. He’s the star player on a very successful junior hockey team, in a country obsessed with the sport, and puck bunnies also exist in his age group. No, Shane just hadn’t felt ready for that up until now. 

Clearly, now he had been more than ready, but he’ll blame that on hormones and the heat of the moment. 

That, and his lack of impulse control. Which he will work on and master just like he’s mastered everything else in his life. 

Besides, Wikipedia says that hand jobs are foreplay, so it’s not like Shane just lost his virginity. Haha, that would be crazy. 

He is definitely filing this one under “impulse control issues” and not under “sexual experiences”, even though it had been kind of sexual. Maybe even extremely sexual, and also very mutual, because he’s pretty sure the stains on his shirt aren’t just his own, uh, stuff. 

Shane takes off his shirt, stuffs it into the hamper and thanks the universe for the fact that his mom decided he should start doing his own laundry now that he’s 16.

The evidence is hidden from view now, but it doesn’t make it any less damning as he moves on to the next point on the little mental list he just made. 

Does this make him gay?

Shane swallows and stares at his laptop screen where Wikipedia is still open. Looking this up feels like it would be a bit too much. What if his parents found out? Terrifying, he’d do absolutely anything to avoid that, so he’ll have to solve this one without internet support.

Gay means you want to kiss other boys and maybe do even more with them. More sexual stuff. Like he had done with Rozanov. 

Thinking about this in the first place is embarrassing.

If you’re gay, you don’t want to kiss girls or do more with them or date them. 

As previously established, Shane hadn’t ever wanted to kiss anyone before, let alone do more than that. But some of his team mates back home have girlfriends and he’s thought it would be nice to have one as well. He’s even been considering asking out Jennifer from his Math class after this summer. So, not gay.

Plus, hockey players simply aren’t gay, that just isn’t a thing. 

Rozanov probably isn’t gay either. 

Maybe all of this is just some weird European thing that Shane doesn’t understand.

And he’s fine with not understanding it. Case closed, Shane is taking another shower and going to bed, because he realizes that it’s way too late by now for him to still be awake. 

*****

The universe is cruel. Why else would Shane have another practice immediately the next day after his, uh, detrimental lapse in judgement?

Rationally, he knows it’s because he’s training with a bunch of ice hockey freaks, is the son of two ice hockey freaks, is a huge ice hockey freak himself. But clearly, he wasn’t in the habit of being rational these days, so blaming the universe feels better.

Things would be fine though, he barely slept but it would be alright. After taking another shower last night, he’d realized that his internal conflict about what happened after training was only part of the issue, because there was a whole other person involved. Thus, Shane had ended up staying up even later, lying in bed and wondering how he should act when being confronted with Rozanov again. 

The conclusion he had come to was that he would just ignore it and hope for the best. It came to him after he spent a solid 30 minutes being angry over not being able to control other people’s actions, but what matters is that he has a plan now. 

It’s probably not a good plan, but what other options were there? Another confrontation with Rozanov didn’t seem like a smart move. Mostly because the other boy was still physically stronger than Shane, and Shane was usually in the habit of not getting punched. But also, what if something happened again? The thought causes Shane to twitch, there’s a tight feeling low in his belly and he has no desire to further examine that. Therefore, ignorance must be the key.

*****

Shane drives to the ice palace with his mom. He’s way too early for practice, but his mother has a meeting with coach Kharlamov and the other assistant coaches. They don’t talk during the drive, and it’s an uncomfortable silence. Shane knows he shouldn’t have snapped at her last night after practice, she was just doing her job. But it still kinda hurt and he wasn’t ready to apologize yet.

“See you later, dear”, is all she says as they walk through the arena doors, then she turns left to head towards the offices, while Shane turns right to get to the locker room. 

Because Shane apparently is a total fucking fool, he hadn’t considered the possibility that other players may also show up early today. It’s still exceptionally early, but he really should have thought of that. All this overthinking, and for what?

*****

For the second time in less than 24 hours, Shane finds himself alone in the locker room with Ilya Rozanov. 

More specifically, this time it’s shirtless Ilya Rozanov, turned away from where Shane is standing in the door but looking over his shoulder, seemingly frozen in the middle of putting on his compression shirt.

Shane knows his mouth is open and he’s staring and he really should just look away and move on, but his body isn’t listening to the commands his brain is yelling. He knows that Rozanov is the same age as him, but he’s never seen back muscles like that on any other 16-year-old. And Shane has seen plenty of guys topless, he’s an athlete after all. 

Shane’s gaze moves up Rozanov’s back and the voices in his head keep yelling, until his eyes catch on a small collection of bruises on the other boy’s shoulder. They’re not the only bruises Rozanov has, because Rozanov takes the full-contact sports part of ice hockey very seriously. But these bruises are faint and mirrored on Rozanov’s other shoulder, they’re not bruises you get from playing ice hockey.

They’re bruises you get from aggressively making out with another hockey player, apparently.

Shane put those bruises there.

He can feel the blush spreading across his face, so hot it feels like it’s burning him, and Shane still can’t figure out how to move, or look away or do literally anything besides stare at Rozanov’s naked back. He’s probably tomato red by now.

So much for just ignoring it.

Rozanov is the first to remember how to be a person, and Shane had almost forgotten what kind of person he is, until the other boy smirks at him, drops his shirt and says, “You want picture, Hollander?” in his heavily accented voice.

Rozanov’s a fucking asshole, is what he is. 

“Fuck off”, Shane finally snaps out of it, walks to his stall which is right next to Rozanov’s because, again, the universe hates Shane Hollander. 

Rozanov is chuckling as he picks his shirt back up and pulls it over his head, and of course he notices Shane sneaking a last look at the little bruises on his shoulders before they disappear under the tight fabric. Rozanov raises an eyebrow as if to challenge him to say anything else, but Shane just frowns and turns away from him, opening his equipment bag.

Fuck that guy.

******************************

Москва, Июль 2007

Ilya needs to get over it, and get over it fast. Hollander is making that difficult for him though, with all the staring and blushing. The way his freckles stand out against his pink cheeks makes Ilya want to bite him.

He bites his tongue instead and finishes getting geared up, leaving Hollander to pretend he’s looking for something in his bag while Ilya heads out to the rink. 

He didn’t have much of a plan when he decided to come to the ice palace early this morning, other than getting away from his own house, where his father was still angry and Andrei was still gloating. The only saving grace was that the news of yesterday’s horrible practice hadn’t gotten back to his father by the time he came home, and so Ilya was only informed that he is a failure as a son, and not that he’s also a failure on the ice. 

The failure on the ice parts needs fixing though, Ilya thinks as he starts skating back and forth. He refuses to let Hollander embarrass him any further, on the ice and off it, because he sure had felt like a fucking idiot standing there, dick out, hand covered in cum, after the other boy had bolted. 

Ilya is the one that leaves, the one that decides when things are over. He’s mad about it and that’s good. Anger is a safe and acceptable emotion, one that he can cling onto when his mind tries to drift off to other places. Places like the locker room last night before Hollander had run off like the coward that he is, when he was pressing against Ilya and moaning like a desperate little slut and he’d been so fucking hot and –

Ilya is mad. 

He’s gonna stay mad and it will all be perfectly fine. 

*****

The practice goes well enough, but the tension between Ilya and Hollander does not dissipate. Instead, it feels like it’s only getting worse as time goes on. They’re doing skill drills and it feels like conveniently, it’s always Ilya and Hollander who get pitted against each other in the little competitions. It makes Ilya want to do his best to beat the other boy, which is technically a good thing, and it definitely also helps to keep up the anger. Unfortunately, it also kind of turns him on and he isn’t sure how to deal with that.

He tries to ignore it, Hollander keeps glaring at him, they check each other with more force than necessary when given the opportunity and don’t talk to each other unless they absolutely have to. 

By the end of the week Ilya feels like his skin is too tight, he’s so on edge and he’s getting snappy, his chirps just a bit harsher than usual. Kolya notices, because of course he does, but Kirill does too and that’s a clear sign to Ilya that he does not have his shit together like he should. 

“Do you want to know what I think?”, Kirill asks him while they head into the showers after the final practice of the week. His tone is too sweet, there’s a sly edge to it that Ilya knows well enough, he doesn’t even look at him to see the impish grin on the other boy’s face. 

“Kirya, you think?” Ilya asks back, mock-surprise in his tone. He can hear Kolya snort next to him as he reaches forward to turn on the water. It’s cold at first, but he refuses to step backwards, endures it until it heats up.

“I think you need to blow off some steam”, Kirill’s voice comes from behind him, disregarding the chirp. “I think you need to get fucked up and get fucked, you know?” There's promise in his voice and Ilya knows he’s got the whole thing planned out already. 

“There’s this little party later tonight, my cousin’s friend, you know. Might be just your style.”, Kolya says. His friends are conspiring against him, and unfortunately they’re right to do so because Ilya’s brain, evil traitor that it is, makes him glance over to where Hollander is currently showering. He looks away before anyone can notice. 

“Sure”, Ilya shrugs, “why not?”

*****

Ilya is somewhere in the basement of an old dacha, somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The music is so loud he can barely hear himself think and it’s exactly what he needs right now. The “little” party Kolya’s cousin’s friend is throwing turns out to be a full on rave with easily a hundred guests. 

There’s a fully stocked bar and no one asking questions, so Ilya’s already several drinks deep and the alcohol is working in tandem with the bass to thump the thoughts out of his head. Kolya is handing him another glass of what Ilya quickly figures out is a surprisingly nice vodka and then pulls him into the crowd of dancing people towards where Kirill is surrounded by a bunch of pretty girls. 

This is how it should be, this is where Ilya belongs. There’s several hot women giving him inviting looks, he’s pleasantly buzzed, his boys are here with him, hyping him up. Hollander is probably somewhere on the other side of town being boring, while Ilya is here living the life, winning. 

One of the girls is bolder than the others, takes a step closer into Ilya’s space and he likes the confidence, so he dances with her for a while. She is tall and skinny, a stunning blonde with light eyes, and she pushes her ass against him every chance she gets. 

Ilya lets his fingers glide over her body, down her waist, to her shoulders, and back up until he’s grazing her chest. She’s clearly pleased with that, turning her head over her shoulder to kiss him. They keep dancing like this for a while, Ilya kissing her neck, dragging his hands over her, teasing until she’s basically humping him on the dance floor. 

She leans up to him and whispers in his ear, hot breath against his skin “Do you want to go somewhere a little more private?” - and Ilya agrees. He doubts there’s any place in the whole building that would be truly private at this point, but he kinda likes it like that. The thrill that there is someone just outside the door, just outside the corner, it riles him up.

She leads him up the stairs and into a small room which probably was some kind of study or office at some point, but nowadays obviously saw more use as a convenient hook up spot. Now that they’re alone, the girl suddenly acts a little more coy, tucking her bleached hair behind her ear like she wasn’t just massaging Ilya’s cock through his pants for dozens of people to see a minute ago. 

Ilya hates when girls get like this, when they suddenly act like they’re shy, because they’re never good actresses somehow. He’s really not into this whole game of pretending like he has to convince her now, when they both already know what they’re here for. But Ilya is a better actor than her, so doesn’t roll his eyes and pretends to play along, because his dick is still hard and he wants to do something about it. 

The sex is fine, when they finally get to it, after she’s satisfied with Ilya’s performance. It should be good, better than it feels to Ilya right now, because he knows what he’s doing and so does the girl. He has her bent over a desk and she’s clearly enjoying herself, but the way she is moaning is grating on his nerves and he feels like he needs to hold back, because she looks like he could snap her in half with a hard enough thrust. 

Briefly he wonders what it would be like with someone stronger, someone who could take whatever Ilya could give, but he opens his eyes back up quickly and focuses back on what’s in front of him. Her skin is pale and flawless, and Ilya runs a hand over her back, and clearly he’s not as drunk as he should be, because he wonders what she would look like with a few freckles scattered over her shoulders.

God, Ilya is so fucked up for this.

When he’s tying off the condom to throw it into a conveniently placed waste bin, she’s pulling her dress back up and dangling her long legs off the desk she’s now sitting on. “Do you have your phone on you?”, she asks, and Ilya knows where she is trying to go with this. 

“No, I left it at home”, he responds while buckling his belt back up. It’s the truth, too, but mostly he simply has no desire to repeat this little charade. Before she can come up with an alternative plan to get his number, his hand is on the doorknob. 

“I’ll see you around”, Ilya doesn’t mean it but gives her a sweet smile anyways, then he’s out the door. 

It’s not her fault, at least not entirely. Ilya has a problem and unfortunately, she wasn’t the solution. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it while he makes his way back downstairs to either find Kolya and Kirya, or another opportunity to try and fix whatever is wrong with him. 

Eventually, he finds both, but his issue persists, Ilya doesn’t stop wanting. 

*****

“Maybe you just need to fuck him”, Sveta says two days later, when they’re both lying on her bed, catching their breath, staring at the ceiling.

Ilya rolls over to look at her then, “What?”

He considers it. It’s true, Hollander being a man makes the whole thing different from other sexual encounters he’s had so far. There were plenty of other opportunities in the past, Ilya’s hot and he’s noticed other guys looking, but safety has always been a bigger concern up until now. 

Until Hollander showed up and flipped some kind of switch in Ilya’s brain, and suddenly getting with another guy in a fucking locker room where anyone could have just walked in to see was perfectly fine.

But Ilya doesn’t know how to admit that out loud, and he has the suspicion that Sveta will push and push until he has some kind of realization that he isn’t ready to have. So instead he says “Maybe”.

“Sasha is back from his mother’s in a few weeks.” She’s giving him a pointed look and moves in closer. 

“That’s a few weeks too long for me to deal with this shit.” Ilya sighs and wraps his arms around her. He knows she means well, she always does. 

Sveta leans into him and hums against his shoulder, then snakes an arm around Ilya and squeezes him. It’s comforting and Ilya knows it means she heard all the things he didn’t say anyways, but she doesn’t say anything for a while. Her skin is warm against his and her hair smells nice, a bit like shampoo and a lot like something that is uniquely Sveta, and Ilya wishes he could just stay here forever and ignore the rest of the world. 

“You should fuck him”, she whispers into his ear, quiet but determined. 

Ilya hums, “Okay then, how do you suggest I go about doing that?”

******************************

Moscow, July 2007

Shane’s parents are out tonight, he knows they won’t be back until well past midnight and he hasn’t touched his dick since… well, since someone else touched it for him, which was almost a week ago now. So maybe all the tension and irritation he’s been feeling are simply side effects of being a teenage boy and not masturbating enough. Seems plausible, right?

The other practices this past week after the incident had been gruelling, Shane felt like he was constantly on the cusp of trying to strangle Rozanov, somehow always too close and too far from the other boy, and his mere presence in Shane’s life was slowly chipping away at his sanity. Not being on the ice wasn’t helping either, because Shane despised rest days already, and now it felt like absolute torture to just be cooped up at the apartment. Back in Ottawa he at least could have gone out to do something with his friends, but he wasn’t really close enough to anyone here in Moscow to just call them up and he’d already gone for a long run and worked out.

Therefore, masturbation feels like Shane’s last resort to get rid of at least some of the nervous energy that’s been overloading his senses all week. 

It’s a perfectly normal thing to do, and he must have done it hundreds of times before, so he decided that there’s no reason for the concept to stress him out as much as it currently does. Shane gets up from where he’s been lounging on the sofa and makes his way upstairs, determined to see this through. 

He has the apartment all to himself but somehow it still feels safer to go jerk off in the shower, just in case. When he makes it to his bathroom, he locks the door behind himself and slowly starts undressing. Then he turns on the water and waits for it to warm up before he steps into the spray.

He takes a few moments to just stand there and get into the right headspace, before he lets his right hand glide down over his chest and stomach to take hold of his dick. It only takes a few tugs before his body seemingly is fully on board with Shane’s plans for the rest of the night. 

It feels good, Shane has a steady rhythm going, twisting his wrist a little in a way that makes his whole body twitch - but of course he has to ruin it. Usually he doesn’t really think of anything much when masturbating, focuses on the feeling instead. Shane thinks that maybe he’s just not creative enough to fantasize, although he had tried thinking of some pretty girls from school before, unfortunately without much success. It felt kind of wrong to involve them in this without their knowledge or consent.

So Shane thinks of nothing except for his hand on his dick. He lets his other hand travel across his torso until his fingers find one of his nipples. Tentatively, he gives it a careful flick, enjoys the little shiver it sends through him, and then does it again. He has only done that once or twice before, but maybe he should incorporate playing with his chest into his routine more frequently.

That’s when the fuck up happens. 

Shane absentmindedly lets his free hand travel further up his torso, until it’s resting on his shoulder. His right thumb rubs over his frenulum and it’s so good, he twitches and lets out a quiet little moan, squeezing his shoulder in the process.

He quickly tears his eyes open, but it doesn’t help. The mental he of the little bruises on Rozanov’s shoulder isn’t going away. Four round little red spots on each shoulder, left there by Shane when Rozanov had him pressed up against the lockers with his tongue in his mouth. 

Fuck.

Shane needs to stop. He has to quit thinking about this or at the very least has to quit touching himself but he finds that he can’t. Or, doesn’t want to, if he’s totally honest. It feels good and he needs the release. 

He tries to replace Rozanov with Jennifer from his Math class in his mind but fails spectacularly. Instead, he can almost feel Rozanov’s big hands all over him with how intently he’s suddenly thinking about it. About last week. About the locker room. About Rozanov touching him and kissing him and getting them both off together. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, stop it.

Except Shane’s imagination isn’t cooperating with the rational part of his brain. It just moves on to all the other times he’s seen Rozanov since. To the day after when he saw the bruises on Rozanov’s wide back. To the next practice after that, when Rozanov had slammed him into the boards so hard, his entire body was covering Shane’s for a moment, leaving him tingling all over. To the locker room showers, where Shane had tried so hard not to look but still ended up catching a glimpse of Rozanov’s round ass and muscular thighs. 

Fuck, the showers. 

They’re always so cold when you first turn them on, but then they warm up and fill the whole room with steam, just like the shower here in his own bathroom. And there’s no way to resist his mind’s wandering anymore by this point. Shane admits defeat and lets himself wonder what it would be like to have Rozanov here in the shower with him. 

Shane would look at him, really look at him, because there would be no one else there to catch him doing it. And maybe, maybe Shane would touch him, leave new bruises on his shoulders and figure out exactly what the muscles stretching under his skin feel like. And Rozanov would touch him too, because he’s bold and cocky like that and Shane would let him because those big hands would feel so fucking good all over him.

They’d be pressed up against each other like they were back then, constantly trying to get even closer and Shane would feel the heat of Rozanov’s hard cock against his hip and he’d feel so fucking powerful, just like the last time. Rozanov would kiss him and bite his lip and Shane is moaning but no one’s home to hear so it doesn’t matter. 

He lets his hand roam over his own body again, pressing into the fading bruise on his ribs that he got from Rozanov checking him three days ago and the pain somehow feels amazing. Shane wants Rozanov pressed up against him, just like he had been when shoving him into the boards, and he wonders if Rozanov would leave new bruises on him. Not the hockey kind, but the sexy kind, the kind Shane had left on him, the kind Shane would leave on him again in this little fantasy of his. 

He can feel himself getting closer, stroking faster and more frantically now, Shane leans his forehead against the shower wall and thinks of Rozanov plastered against his backside like this. He imagines his muscular arms reaching around him, what would it feel like if Rozanov’s hand was on his dick now instead of his own? Or if it were stroking over his chest, flicking and twisting his nipples? 

Shane just knows somehow, knows it would feel so fucking good. 

And Rozanov would be leaning over his shoulder and Shane would hear his heavy breathing right next to his ear, he’d feel the hot air being exhaled against him and he thinks of the little groan Rozanov had let out that one time and of how badly he wants to hear that sound again. How badly he wants Rozanov all over him, his full attention focused on Shane, filling all his senses, and he twists his wrist the same way he had done and then Shane is coming hard, splattering against the shower wall. 

It takes a few long seconds for him to catch his breath and come back down to earth.

Shit.

What the fuck is wrong with him.

That was kinda gay.

Later, when Shane goes to brush his teeth, he can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror. 

Chapter End Notes

Once again, I should have been working on my thesis and ended up writing smut instead - I have no regrets.
Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos or even just bothered to read this. I'm having an absolute blast writing this thanks to all of you!

I hope you're also enjoying yourself here, absolutely do let me know your theories for what these two idiots will get up to when they come face to face with each other next!

Also, another shoutout (but not really) to my home team, they have a game tomorrow against another team that also isn't doing too hot this season, so they might stand a chance.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I keep telling myself that someday soon I will go over what I've posted so far and do some editing, because I know, theoretically, that that would probably do quite a bit for the quality of this story. But then life gets in the way and writing a new chapter just feels like it's so much more fun.

There's some horrible Google-translated Russian and French in this, my apologies to people who actually speak either of those languages and now have to suffer because I don't.

Moscow, July 2007

By age 16, Shane had been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of racially-motivated microaggressions - and not-so-micro aggressions as well. It came with the territory, he thought. Playing hockey for one, and being annoyingly good at it for another. By the time he was 12, when the quiet mumbles around him had turned into a steady buzz that followed him no matter where he skated, it had started to become so frequent, he could see it on other peoples’ faces before they even opened their mouths or raised their hands. 

Shane understood the envy and the jealousy that he knew he inspired it in other players more often than not. He had felt it himself before, when watching another boy pull off an especially tricky shot or make a highly complicated pass. Shane knew he was different from the other boys on his team when it came to talent, but it had taken him a long time to understand that that wasn’t the only issue they took with him - it was the way he looked. 

The first time he was confronted with it was when he was in Kindergarten, maybe around 4 or 5 years old. Another child had made a drawing of their group back then, and he’d drawn Shane with little slits for eyes, while all the other kids had two little round dots on their faces instead. He knew their teacher had said something about it in hushed tones then, but looking back, he doesn’t think he even heard whatever it may have been. More and more incidents like that kept following, ramping up in intensity and offensiveness as he got older, but he remained fairly unaware until he was 8 and a classmate announced that he didn’t want “that fucking ch*nk” on his team for dodge ball, and suddenly he noticed it everywhere. In the way classmates interacted with him, in the way some of his teachers eyed his lunch box, in the way his peers’ parents would address him. 

Suddenly, it was so obvious in the way his teammates and opponents would chirp him on the ice. How some of the checks were harder, why some of them would spit on the ice before his skates. 

Shane had no idea how to deal with it, and even less of a clue on what to do when he realized that Yao Chang, who was on his pee wee team when they were maybe 10, was on the receiving end of that sort of behavior even more often. 

Looking back now, Shane understands why Yao had hated him, and wishes he could have done something, anything, to make things better. But even now he’s not quite sure what that could have been. 

Shane can see it now, on the faces of some of the other boys here in the locker room. 

He may not understand what they are saying, because they’re not using any of the maybe 10 words Shane knows in Russian, but he understands the meaning of the looks some of them are giving him. 

He knows there is an extra layer of outsider-ness added on top of it all, due to the strange situation he is in. Shane is not part of their team, he’s a foreign element brought in by a temporary assistant coach that most of them seem not to like either, outskating them on their home ice. So he can comprehend it, on a technical, theoretical level. 

On a more personal, more emotional level though, it’s hell, it hurts, it makes the envy and jealousy that has been festering in him since the first time he entered their rink feel like acid seeping from his stomach into his blood stream. 

It makes Shane almost wish Rozanov gave him those looks. Any evidence to prove the other has a bad character, beyond being a menace. If Rozanov revealed himself to be a horrible human being, then maybe Shane wouldn't be feeling the way he does about him - but so far, no such luck. 

Rozanov is annoying and overly competitive and good at hockey and at being a captain specifically and it burns, watching the way Rozanov commands a whole room in a way Shane himself could never manage. It’s clear that not all of his teammates like him, but they all respect him as their captain. They don’t question him, don’t accuse him of receiving any sort of preferential treatment or of being there just to fill some kind of quota. 

Rozanov is an open wound that Shane keeps picking at because he can't bear to leave it to scab over, even though that would probably be for the best. 

Maybe it could have worked, if all the tension had stayed on the ice and the locker room incident had never happened. 

Or maybe, it would have been inevitable either way. 

Because Rozanov looks at him like he hates him, but in a way that makes Shane feel hot and angry and pleased. Like he hates him because of what Shane can do and not because of who Shane is. 

Because Rozanov rules his team with a strange sort of gentle iron fist, that makes him seem fun but leaves no tolerance for bullshit.

Because Rozanov notices when Abramov looks at Shane that way, and he moves his stick over the ice just the tiniest bit, causing the other boy to stumble before he can come crashing into Shane.

Rozanov isn't horrible and that is what makes this all so much worse.

*****

Actually. Fuck that.

Rozanov is the absolute worst.

Or maybe Shane is, he doesn't know anymore at this point.

Practice had gone alright until they were about halfway through, when they were all set up to go 3-on-3 against each other. No goalies, no defense, just 6 boys waging war.

Shane could have sworn that coach Kharlamov must have been trying to manipulate him by this point, when he was up to face off against Rozanov once again, the cocky Russian already waiting at the central face-off circle.

“Hollander, ready to disappoint Mama?”, Rozanov had that evil little glint in his blue eyes when he quickly let his gaze flicker over to where Shane's mother was standing with one of the other assistant coaches.

“No chance”, Shane had gritted out in response, but the comment had thrown him off enough to make him lose the face off.

Rozanov knocked the puck over to one of his linemates and then they took off in the direction of the goal, Shane and the other two boys on his team giving chase. They were going so damn fast, the air was burning in his lungs and Shane managed to take the puck off one of the guys from the opposing team. He immediately made his way back in the direction of the other goal, but Rozanov was right on him, flying down the ice at a speed Shane was used to no one being able to keep up with. Exhilarating and frustrating.

Shane passes at the last second, his linemates scoring on the empty goal, and Rozanov crushes him against the boards.

It keeps going like that, a back and forth where they stay neck-to-neck and are in each other's space constantly.

Shane doesn't know who started it in the end.

He just knows he feels the plexiglass hard against his shoulder and then his gloves are on the ice, hands fisted in Rozanov’ jersey, and Rozanov’s hands on him. They should be throwing punches, and Shane later thinks they probably did by the way his lip is split.

But at that moment he barely registers it.

All he can hear is his own blood rushing and roaring in his ears, furiously pumping through his body. It lasts anywhere between the blink of an eye and a lifetime and then their heads are crashing together and Shane can hear the ringing of it but doesn't feel the pain until after he is pulled backwards and confronted with his mother's face.

Oh no.

Rozanov’s evil little grin is staring at him from the back of his own brain and in front of him, Yuna Hollander is furious.

Shane knows his mother gets intense, knows she takes his successes and failures way too personal. Sometimes it feels like she is more his coach than his mom, but right now her face tells him she is both, and both sides of her are disappointed in him.

“C'est quoi cette marde, Shane?!” she is yelling now, but not in the way she usually does. Shane knows she can get loud, his dad always calls it “passionate”. But this isn't passion. It’s shock and rage and a million other things that make Shane feel like he’s being kicked in the stomach. 

“Qu'est-ce qui ne tourne pas rond chez toi? Tu n'agis jamais comme ça. C'est toujours avec ce gars-là, je t'avais dit de te ressaisir! Tu me fais honte, tu me déçois. Tu vas régler ce maudit problème!” 

The acid keeps rushing through him and his mouth tastes like iron and Shane has never seen his mother like this before. He bites his lip and there is a sharp pain shooting through his jaw, it keeps him from yelling back at her.

Behind him, Shane can hear coach Kharlamov shouting at a volume he hadn't thought a human capable of. The coach's rough voice echoes through the whole arena, almost drowning out his mother's, and Shane is sure he catches an impressive amount of Russian expletives. The content of his speech is probably similar to his mother's, and he wonders what Rozanov’s face looks like now. He's probably not grinning anymore.

*****

They end up forced to sit out the rest of practice, Shane in one penalty box and Rozanov in the other. 

Shane wishes he could just keep his eyes facing forward and focused on the ice, but they keep drifting over to the other boy, kicking his own pride while it's already down in the process.

Rozanov looks angry, like there should be steam coming out of his ears. His hair is plastered to his forehead. Shane tracks a bead of sweat running down from above his brow, over his cheek and down his neck. The other boy is still breathing heavily and there is blood smeared all over his face. 

There is a slash across the bridge of Rozanov's nose from where the visor of his helmet has cut into his face. Shane carefully lifts his hand to his own face, he can feel a matching laceration running across his own nose. It stings.

A bit of blood is still leaking from Rozanov's nose in slow, thick drops and he wipes it across his face every once in a while. It looks like some absurdist avant-garde war paint on Rozanov's chiseled face. 

Shane can’t help but think that no one should be allowed to have cheek bones like that at age sixteen and that's when Rozanov catches him looking. 

The corners of his mouth are crusted in blood and he lifts them up and outwards slowly. The expression could probably be interpreted as a grin, but Rozanov's teeth are stained red, red, red and it makes Shane’s heart rate pick up. The other boy’s eyes are dark, but there is an eerie shine to them, like clouds in a thunderstorm, carrying lightning, ready to cause devastation. 

For a long moment, it feels like Shane can't move or breathe or do anything at all. 

******************************

Москва, Июль 2007

They wait until practice finishes. Kolya gives him a little look before leaving the ice and heading to the locker room, and Ilya wants to deck him in the face for it. But it’s Kolya, so he won’t. Probably. 

Kharlamov is standing in a little circle with coach Hollander and two other assistant coaches, just out of ear shot. His face doesn’t give anything away because he always looks pissed off, no matter what. Still, Ilya feels the tension in the air, and the other coaches are easier to read. 

Coach Hollander looks like she bit into a sour apple and is trying not to let it show on her face. Her features look strained somehow, her arms are folded over her chest and he can see her nails digging into the blue fleece jacket she’s wearing. She looks like her son does when he’s trying to keep it together and that makes Ilya want to laugh. Kharlamov probably isn’t pleased with her or Hollander right now, but Ilya knows he’s even less pleased with him, which is why he keeps his mouth shut. His nose is bruised but not broken and Ilya would like to keep it that way. 

Vlascenko has his back turned to him, but Zhukov is in plain view and the strange half-grin, half-scowl on his ugly mug is enough for Ilya to know that he is well and truly fucked. 

It feels like their discussion drags on forever, and Ilya’s stomach is twisting into knots, tighter and tighter the longer he waits for them to finish. It’s like waiting to be hanged, he thinks. 

He also thinks that he should be angrier than he is right now. There is a scratchy little voice in his head telling him that this is entirely Hollander’s fault. If the Canadian hadn’t shown up then none of this would be happening. Ilya is furious, he kind of wants to strangle Hollander about, just a little bit, but he’s nowhere near as furious as he thinks he should be. The worst part is that he can’t even lie to himself and pretend that it’s because he’s above petty shit like that, or because he’s mature enough to admit he’s contributed to this clusterfuck just as much as the other boy. Oh no, Ilya is so mad he’s practically vibrating with it – but the thought of strangling Hollander is also incredibly distracting. 

Turns out, it takes a whole lot of effort for Ilya to not think about his hands around Hollander’s throat. 

By the time he has managed to somewhat put the mental image aside, he can see Kharlamov breaking away from the huddle to approach the penalty box, the assistant coaches following him like henchmen. 

Kharlamov turns to Ilya first, and Ilya can tell what he’s about to say before he opens his mouth. There’s a terrible shiver spreading over his skin from the back of his neck, anticipating his execution.

“Я расскажу об этом твоему отцу.” Kharlamov says in that terrible, neutral tone of voice he only ever uses when choosing the nuclear option. 

Ilya had expected it, but it still feels like his heart stutters and stops for a few beats. 

Then Kharlamov looks at Hollander, something that Ilya thinks must be a mix of annoyance and disgust flashing over his face before he schools his expression. Addressing them both, he announces “No practice, rest of this week. You sit, you watch, you work it out or you are out. Show me in one week.” 

He waits for a beat to make sure both Ilya and Hollander understand, and then he fixes his gaze on Ilya again. 

“Ещё одна ошибка, и тебя исключат из команды.” Kharlamov’s voice remains neutral, but Ilya can feel the anger in it anyways. Still, he’s not sure whether his head coach would be glad or sad to see him go – he doesn’t plan on finding out. 

Kharlamov stalks off with Vlascenko and Zhukov at his heels then, but coach Hollander remains on the ice. She whispers something to Hollander in what Ilya is sure must be French, and the other boy’s face twitches. 

Then, louder and in English, she says, “You two will be cleaning the equipment room tonight. I will let you know tomorrow when the rink is free, you are encouraged to practice together outside of regular training hours to learn how to work together.” Coach Hollander sounds pleasant as always but looks at Ilya like he’s a filthy piece of gum she stepped on.

When the words fully register, red hot humiliation floods Ilya’s senses and, finally, he’s as angry as he should have been all along. 

*****

There are no words exchanged between Ilya and Hollander as they make their way back to the locker room, which thankfully, is empty when they get there. At this point Ilya would have punched even Kolya were he forced to face him.

Ilya remains quiet as he takes off his gear. He avoids looking at Hollander, who remains silent as well, but Ilya can still feel his presence right next to him. Curse their fucking equipment manager for assigning Hollander the stall right next to Ilya’s. 

By the time he gets to the showers and turns up the heat way beyond what is comfortable, Ilya remembers that his mouth isn’t actually supposed to taste like metal. His nose hurts as he scrubs the dried blood off his face, everything burns, but at least some of the tension he’d been holding between his shoulders seems to evaporate alongside the steam that is starting to fill the room. Ilya really should check out the damage in a mirror, but for now he tries to take stock of his physical condition without visual aid.

It’s not too bad, really. His nose will probably bruise and so will his shoulder. The skin stretching over the knuckles of his right hand has split open and there is a dull ache in his shins. None of his injuries hurt nearly as much as the shame he is feeling, which sits in his throat and burns him from the inside out.  

Ilya bitterly hopes that Hollander feels it too, on top of whatever physical damage Ilya has managed to inflict on him.  

That thought is what finally makes him turn his head to look at where the other boy is showering, a few spaces to Ilya’s left. Hollander’s lip is split, and underneath it it looks like his jaw is a little swollen. Good, Ilya thinks. But the bit of satisfaction he feels at that grows exponentially as he lets his gaze crawl down Hollander’s body. Just below a fading bruise on Hollander’s ribs, a new, angry red mark is forming, spanning all the way down to cover his right hip bone. It looks big and painful and Ilya is immensely pleased with himself all of a sudden. 

When Ilya’s gaze travels back north, Hollander is looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. Like he just caught Ilya checking him out and can’t believe his audacity. Hollander’s isn’t exactly wrong there either, but he’s also not exactly right. What is more interesting though is that his face is suddenly almost as red as the fresh bruise on his hip. 

Ilya smirks at the other boy and wiggles his eyebrows as he says “Do not worry, Hollander, is not that impressive.” 

Hollander huffs at that, and Ilya knows he’s got him. He seems to take a moment to figure out what to say before he replies, “You’re not all that impressive either.” His voice wobbles almost imperceptibly, but Ilya hears it anyway. It makes him lift one of the corners of his mouth even higher. 

“Ahh, strange. I remember you looking very impressed last time.” 

At that Hollander’s eyes grow even wider and a small noise of indignation escapes him. “T-that! That, I, um, you… “, he starts to mumble before seemingly giving up on finding a comeback. Instead, he abruptly turns to face away, but Ilya still manages to catch the way the flush on Hollander’s cheeks grows a few shades darker.

And really, Ilya might as well just go and make the best out of this fucked up situation. 

*****

The equipment room is a fucking mess, because their team’s equipment manager is assistant coach Zhukov’s cousin and being a brainless dickhead apparently runs in the family. 

There is the small mercy that the CSKA’s junior team has its own equipment room, not shared with any of the other teams that call the ice palace their home, so the amount of gear is at least somewhat manageable. Still, everything is all over the place and Ilya can already tell it will take them the rest of the night to figure it out. 

The two boys get to work, Ilya sorting through a pile of sticks to separate the left-curved ones from those that curve right, and Hollander picking loose gear that is spread over the floor to sort it into neat little piles. 

The silence between them is tense and it grates on Ilya’s nerves for a good long while before he decides to break it. 

“Do we talk about it?”, he turns to look at Hollander as he asks. 

Hollander stares up at him from where he is kneeling on the floor next to a pile of gloves. He looks horrified again, but Ilya has run out of patience for the day, so he presses on, “We talk about it now, okay?”

“By it do you mean… ?” Hollander trails off, he’s looking at Ilya’s shoes like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever come across.

“Да, Hollander,” Ilya sighs, “It is when we fucked in locker room, few weeks ago.” 

“WHAT?!” Hollander gawks at his then, mouth open. “We didn’t fuck! I would know if we had fucked, we certainly DID. NOT. FUCK.”

God help him, Ilya is trying his best not to roll his eyes, but Hollander is making it difficult for him. “Ты уверен, что знаешь?”, he mumbles, but that just makes Hollander glare at him and probably won’t get them anywhere.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, “Handjob, happy?”

Hollander opens his mouth and it’s clear that he means to respond “yes”, but he stops himself just in time. Ilya bites his lip in an effort to keep his face neutral. Instead, Hollander says, “More accurate, at least.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at the other boy then until Hollander gives in, “Okay then. You want to talk about it, so let’s talk about it.”

******************************

Moscow, July 2007

Why, why, why is this happening to him?

Shane is stuck in a stuffy equipment room with the most irritating guy the world has ever seen. It’s too warm here in here, everything smells faintly sweaty and mildewy, the fluorescent lights are overly bright and hurt his eyes, he’s pretty sure that if hell exists it must look something like this. With Ilya fucking Rozanov as the devil, how fitting. 

However, instead of taking one of the sticks he’s been sorting to poke and torture Shane with, the other boy takes a deep breath and then says, “Sorry,” and it feels like the floor is being pulled out from underneath Shane.

“Huh?”, is all he can come up with in response, shock having momentarily rendered him incapable of speech, there is no air in his lungs and he can’t figure out how to force it back in there.

Across the room Rozanov looks down at the floor for a second, then “Sorry. For what happened. Should… uh… should ask before… that. So, sorry.” 

Shane has no idea what to do with himself. How is anyone supposed to navigate a situation like this? How is Rozanov managing to look both bashful and completely confident at the same time? How does Rozanov think that that is the issue here?

“You think the problem is that you didn’t ask me for consent before we…?”

“Да, that, yes.”, Rozanov nods gravely, and then, because apparently he can’t get through this without torturing Shane at least a tiny bit, he adds “For kiss. And for hand job.”

It makes Shane want to laugh, because this has to be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, in the most ridiculous situation he’s ever been in. Here they are, benched for fighting and forced to clean up this weird-ass equipment room, constantly at each other’s throats for the past few weeks. Just two guys who got each other off in a public fucking locker room where anyone could have walked in on them at any point. And the part Rozanov is apologizing for is not getting verbal consent beforehand? Not for the fact that it happened? For the fact that it was just plain stupid and probably also more than a little dangerous? 

Shane gives in and starts laughing, because again, this is ridiculous. 

Rozanov snorts, looking down at where Shane is still sitting on the floor of the equipment room, about to fall over from laughter. 

And then he joins.

And they’re both laughing and it feels like neither of them can stop.

It takes a good long while until it dies down, both of them breathless and red in the face, Rozanov now also sitting on the floor across from Shane. Shane tries to catch his breath but that only makes him break out in giggles again and he’s not the only one struggling. 

“So,” Rozanov starts again, breathless still but finally calming down, “You are not angry about this?”

Shane inhales deep and takes a moment to think, regarding Rozanov in the meantime. He looks younger like this, face glowing, winded from a giggle fit. He looks 16 just like Shane now, not like some overly handsome Hollywood actor in his early 20s, pretending to be a teenager. And he looks like he means it, the apology and the question just now.

“No,” Shane concedes, “I’m not angry. Not like that, at least. I… Well, uh, I thought it was kinda obvious that I was into it.” He can feel the blush spreading over his face, but hopes it’s not too noticeable under the flush he already had going from all the laughing. 

“Yes,” Rozanov deadpans, “but is important to ask, да?”

Shane shrugs, twirling the drawstring of his shorts, “I guess, yeah…” and then, before he can think any better of it, he asks, “Have you, uhh… asked before? Like, other guys, you know?”, pointedly looking anywhere around the room except for at Rozanov.

Rozanov doesn’t say anything for a while, and Shane starts to nervously bite his lip, still not daring to look at the other boy. 

When Shane starts to taste blood again, thinking he probably reopened the cut on his lip, Rozanov hums audibly, drawing Shane’s gaze to him. 

In the uncomfortably white lighting Rozanov’s eyes seem to be a surreal shade of blue, like a clear lake on a cold day, and they’re boring into Shane now. Can Rozanov see what he thinks, looking at him like this? 

“Was not first time overall,” the Russian eventually say, “and I did not ask you. But would have been first time asking a man.”

There’s a warm feeling spreading through Shane’s chest, like a weighted blanket being spread over his torso. It makes it a little harder to breathe, but not in an uncomfortable way. The longer he looks at Rozanov, the more he thinks that maybe there are tiny specks of green and gold hidden in the blue of his eyes. Did they move closer without Shane noticing? 

“Why did you…”, Shane starts, then pauses to lick over his lip again. He definitely reopened the wound, he can taste a drop of blood on his tongue, “Why did you… do it, then, that is?” Words are difficult to come by. Maybe it’s the stale air, the lack of oxygen in the stuffy equipment room, making it difficult to think. 

Or maybe it’s Rozanov, who is definitely closer than he was a few minutes ago, and who is still looking into Shane’s eyes like he’s trying to catch a glimpse of his soul. 

“Was just… What is it? Curious? You make me curious.”

“Oh.”

Rozanov’s eyes are right in front of Shane’s face now, and Shane realizes the other must have slowly moved across the floor towards him somehow, because they’re so close now that he can feel the heat radiating off of Rozanov. He can feel his hot breath brushing over his skin as Rozanov whispers, “Do I make you curious?”

The warm pressure in Shane’s chest has turned into hot, vibrating tension somewhere along the way and it’s overwhelming to the point Shane ends up breaking eye contact. Which probably wasn’t a great idea because now he’s looking at Rozanov’s mouth instead, and, fuck. Rozanov has a nice mouth, very pretty, Shane is following the curve of his pronounced cupid’s bow and wondering if his lips are as plush as they look before remembering - he knows they are. 

“Yeah, obviously. You, uh, you make me curious too,” Shane mumbles then, still unable to tear his gaze from the other’s mouth.

Rozanov’s hand is under his chin then, index finger lightly nudging Shane to lift his gaze back up. He can see the smirk in Rozanov’s eyes just as well as he could have seen it on his lips. Somewhere in his head, a voice tells him that Rozanov is mocking him, but he can barely hear it over the thundering of his own heart beat and chooses to ignore it. When Rozanov pulls his hand back, Shane misses the warmth of it.

“You want to find out more? Try again?”, Rozanov’s voice is deep and Shane decides that he likes the heavy accent in it. The words take a few seconds to fully register.

“Oh.” he says again, instead of finding an actual answer. There is definitely a bit of green in the other boy’s eyes, now that he is so close Shane can point out a few specks.

And then Rozanov’s hand is back on Shane’s face if Shane had any thoughts to spare, he would probably be embarrassed at the relief that floods him at that. But you know, the lack of oxygen or whatever. 

Shane’s mouth is still slightly parted from the noise he had made in lieu of giving an answer to Rozanov’s question, and now a warm, calloused thumb is brushing against his lower lip.

“You want?”, Rozanov asks again.

Instead of giving an actual verbal response, Shane nods his head and then pushes his tongue against Rozanov’s thumb. 

There’s a flash of something Shane can’t quite identify traveling through Rozanov’s eyes, making the little green speckles sparkle brightly. The other boy’s mouth is open, his lips forming a small ’o’ and Shane can tell that the entirety of Rozanov’s attention is focussed solely on him. Being looked at in that way makes Shane feel like he’s twenty feet tall and made of hot, solid gold, the universe is the size of a marble and he could swallow it whole if he wanted, and he would if Rozanov asked him to. 

There’s also a thousand alarms going off, somewhere far away in the recesses of Shane’s subconscious mind. But they’re impossible to hear over the wet sound of Rozanov pushing his thumb back against Shane’s tongue until the tip is right between his teeth, and then Shane closes his lips around it to suck it into his mouth a little bit more. 

Rozanov’s skin doesn’t taste like much at all, but Shane likes how the rough texture of the pad of his thumb feels against his tongue. He presses his teeth against it, sucks a bit harder, soothes it with another stroke of his tongue, all the while watching Rozanov’s pupils expand and swallow the little green speckles in his iris. 

Rozanov presses his thumb down against Shane’s teeth, while pushing back up with the side of his index finger that had been resting under Shane’s chin. And then he pulls. Not abruptly or harshly, but rather he gently coaxes Shane to follow him along where he is shifting positions, leaning back and leading Shane with him, never increasing the distance between their faces or breaking eye contact. 

Shane is only distantly aware of his knees scraping against the floor, following along where he is being led without thinking, until he can feel something warm pressing against the inside of his legs. He blinks a few times, then looks down to find his knees bracketing Rozanov’s hips where he is now effectively sitting in the other boy’s lap, his hands resting on Rozanov’s shoulders to keep balance. 

Rozanov carefully pulls his thumb from Shane’s mouth and brings it to his own lips, licking at the shiny spit that’s coating the tip of it. Something in Shane’s mind cracks and crumbles apart, the pieces of whatever it was are drowning in Rozanov’s blue eyes.

“Can I?” Shane’s own voice sounds hoarse and foreign to him now. 

“Can you what?” Rozanov is grinning like he knows exactly what. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Within the blink of an eye Shane is all over Rozanov, now daring to fully plaster his body against the other’s and letting his hands roam. This time it’s Shane’s fingers twisting into Rozanov’s curls and god, his hair is so soft, and it’s Shane’s tongue tracing Rozanov’s lips seeking entry. His eyes slip shut as the other boy opens his mouth and presses his tongue against Shane’s. 

It’s much slower than the kiss in the locker room, less frantic and more inquisitive, but at least as hot, if not hotter. This time, Shane isn’t panicking, at least not as much or as consciously as he was then, and he can pay attention to all the little details he missed the last time they did this. 

Rozanov’s teeth are smooth as he runs his tongue along them, his canines are long and almost a little sharp. Shane thinks the other boy’s tongue has the same little ripples along its edge as his own, and his lips are soft but a little chapped and Shane wants to bite them, so he does. It earns him a little gasp from Rozanov, so he does it again.

Shane can feel one of Rozanov’s hands slipping under his shirt and up his torso, skin burning against skin, and he pushes into the touch. Everything feels like it’s too much and not enough and it’s so fucking good, Shane never wants it to stop.

Emboldened, he untangles one of his hands from Rozanov’s hair and pushes up the other boy’s top to run his fingers over his chest. Rozanov’s skin is soft, and he hums into their kiss when Shane pushes his fingers into the meat of his pecs. Shane is so busy touching and cataloguing all the reactions he gets, he forgets to be jealous about how muscular Rozanov’s chest is. 

Rozanov pulls back a little and breaks their kiss and Shane chases after his mouth. His pleased little grin disappears briefly as he pulls his top off over his head, and as soon as it’s off, his mouth is back on Shane’s. 

Shane is back to sliding his hands over Rozanov’s chest, and when he accidentally brushes over one of his nipples, the other moans and holy shit. That is the sexiest thing Shane has ever heard and he made that happen!!! His dick is painfully hard and he can feel himself leaking precum, soaking his underwear, but he doesn’t have any energy to spare in order to go and be embarrassed about it. All of his focus is on Rozanov, whose tongue is in Shane’s mouth and whose own hard cock is pressing against Shane, radiating heat that travels up Shane’s spine and melts his brain. 

Rozanov’s hands are on Shane’s hips, holding him still and he starts grinding up against him. His blunt nails are digging into the bruise that is spreading over Shane’s right side and it fucking hurts, but in a way that makes him shudder and moan, pressing back into Rozanov’s fingers because it’s exactly what he’s been fantasizing about for the past few weeks and finally, finally, Shane gets to have it.

Maybe Shane is a bit too enthusiastic though, leaning into Rozanov a bit too aggressively, because one second they’re upright and making out and then suddenly the balance tips and they’re almost horizontal. 

Rozanov manages to catch himself on one of his elbows, but his shoulder ends up knocking into some of the hockey sticks he’d been sorting through earlier, and they fall to the floor next to the two boys, clattering noisily. 

“Uhh…” Shane looks down at where Rozanov is sprawled out beneath him, a thin layer of sweat on his naked torso, lips bitten red and hair thoroughly messed up. 

I did that!

… I did that.

Panic suddenly rushes down Shane’s spine like a drop of ice cold water, but before it can spread out, Rozanov starts laughing. His eyes are bright and his nose is scrunching up just the tiniest bit and even in the horrible, horrible lighting of the equipment room he somehow manages to glow. So Shane swallows the lump that was starting to form in his throat and instead starts laughing as well. 

*****

Once more, it seems to take ages before they both figure out how to breathe without breaking out into laughter all over again. By the time they finally manage to pull themselves together, they decide that it’s probably best to get on with cleaning up the equipment that is still all over the place. 

Shane feels a little disappointed, if he’s honest, but that only lasts another 5 minutes or so, when they can hear the Zamboni starting up at the rink, and then he’s relieved to not be on the floor on top of Rozanov anymore. 

By the time they finish it’s late and Shane finds a missed call from his mother on his phone, which he had left with his other stuff in the locker room. 

“Think about it,” Rozanov says, when they’re at the door that leads out of the ice palace. “Many more things to be curious about, yes?”, he pushes the door open and steps out into the warm night, flashes Shane another toothy smile and then he’s off. 

Shane watches him walk off, lighter flickering in his hands as the distance grows, and then turns to see his mother’s car pulling up. 

Right. That.

Shane breathes deeply and swallows, steeling himself for the angry tirade that coach Hollander surely has waiting for him inside the car. But after everything that has happened tonight, he’s just a little less terrified than he would have been otherwise, so he steps forward and opens the door.

Chapter End Notes

This Shane Hollander here at 16 is a lot less freaked out by all of what is happening compared OG Shane Hollander at 19. That's because 19 y/o Shane has had sex with women before and clearly notices the difference in quality when hooking up with Ilya for the first time and that's fucking scary, whereas 16 y/o Shane is a virgin high off his ass on hormones.

In other news, my home team actually won that game I mentioned last time! Good for them, except they immediately got fucking flattened again right at the next game after. They're playing again tomorrow night, and this time they're up against the team whose arena is right next to where I used to go to uni. I'm slowly realizing that hockey has been around me my entire life, like a weird little sleep paralysis demon watching me dream. Either way, I'll keep you in the loop, because clearly the real reason you're reading this is for the updates on my shitty little hometown ice hockey team.

Lots of love!

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Next up: consequences and a day in the life of Ilya Rozanov.

Москва, Июль 2007

Ilya takes his time walking to the metro station, stretching the 20 minute walk as long as it can go and smoking 3 cigarettes on the way there. The nicotine unfortunately doesn’t do much to calm his nerves, now that he can no longer distract himself from the consequences of his actions by trying to count Hollander’s freckles.

It’s late, way too late by now. Even with cleaning up the equipment room after practice Ilya should have been home an hour ago. He also knows that coach Kharlamov probably called his father as soon as he was off the ice and back in his office to inform the man of Ilya’s misconduct. Which means that the colonel probably has been stewing in his anger for hours now, ruminating on the shame Ilya brought to the family, the embarrassment, coming up with his own punishments and picking the perfect words to absolutely gut Ilya with. 

Ilya is more than familiar with how these little tribunals go by now. His father will be holding court on the dark leather sofa in their living room, with Andrei lounging off to his right in the worn-down armchair, ever the loyal henchman. His father will stare Ilya down until the silence becomes so heavy that it will start to feel as though it’s compressing his chest while Andrei will try and fail to hide that ugly little expression he always makes when his little brother is getting his deserved (or undeserved) come-uppance. And then finally, the dam will break and the yelling will start, maximum volume from the get-go, clipped and militaristic at first and then devolving into pure animal fury as his father works himself deeper into his rage. 

In the past year, Ilya had hit a growth spurt and surpassed his father in height. Since then the colonel stopped hitting him with the belt. Instead he now preferred to recruit Andrei to carry out the physical aspects of whatever punishment he decided Ilya deserved for whatever transgression he had committed. 

No matter how long he tries to drag it out, Ilya ends up at the front door to their apartment, clutching his keys tightly between white knuckles. With his other hand he finds the crucifix hanging from his necklace under the fabric of his top and presses it against his collarbones. Ilya knows that prayer won’t help him here, it never did, he’s already at hell’s gates.

He finds the scene before him exactly as expected when he steps through the hallway into the living room. His father is sitting in the middle of the large sofa, stone-faced but with an angry sweat clinging to his brow, that one vein on his forehead pulsing under the skin. To his right, Andrei is biting his cheek to make his gloating less obvious but he fails to do so.

His father stares at him, cold fury flickering in his eyes. It feels like forever, the silence stretches the seconds as they tick by and Ilya can hear the sound of his own heartbeat, too loud in his ears. The hairs on his neck are standing up as he tries to prepare for the outburst to come, but the waiting is always the worst part. 

“So you decided to come and show your face after all,” his father’s voice is loud, ear-shattering but level, a drill sergeant methodically yelling at an insubordinate (unwilling) recruit. “Bold, after what Kharlamov has told me over the phone tonight. You should be… ”

And then Ilya tries his best to dissociate. He unfocuses his eyes, concentrates on his breathing and lets the storm rage on around him. This is just one of the many skills he has practised and worked on perfecting over the years. He forces his mind to go blank until finally it feels like there is a thick fog settling over his brain. Somewhere he still hears his father’s voice, now losing his composure, and Andrei’s biting little interjections. Spittle hits his cheek and he twitches, but he tells himself that it does not matter, none of this matters, he is perfectly calm in the eye of a hurricane. 

Still, dimly, some of the words register despite Ilya’s best efforts to just let them pass through him. He’s a disgrace, a disappointment, a failure of cosmic proportions - he’s heard it all before, countless times. 

But some words hit a little harder than others, they’re not new but they are the things that Ilya has not yet found an effective defense against. He’s not good enough - definitely not as a son, but he’s known that his whole life - but also not as a hockey player, useless at the sport he claims to have mastered. Going on the way he is now will make him an embarrassment on an international level, all of Russia will hate him. His mother should not have given birth to him, his character is just as weak as hers was. He is a burden to his family, his friends, his team. 

It hurts his pride, which he has so carefully shaped into armor over the years, and it hurts his heart, which he thought he’d managed to box up and hide somewhere. 

“... and all the money, all the effort I put into you! All the work Kharlamov does - and what? You let it be ruined by some foreign slut coming to play pretend at coaching, all in less than a month? You spit in my face, all the things I did to get you to this point! And you throw it away over some slit-eyed faggot provoking you? You have no self control. Your mother is turning over in her grave, all the shame you caused her and even now you keep adding to it!”

Is he right? 

Through the haze Ilya is only distantly aware of his own body, but the rage is burning hot and weighs a ton, building in his stomach, bubbling up, ready to boil over.

Suddenly, it is quiet. The yelling has stopped and Ilya’s vision swims back into focus just in time to see the disgust on his father’s face as he rises from the sofa, scoffs, and then turns to leave. Before he is even out the door, Ilya’s view is blocked by Andrei suddenly appearing in front of him, malicious pleasure now plain on his face.

The last time Ilya decided to fight back against his brother was probably about half a year ago now. They’re the same height, and Ilya will probably outgrow him within the next few months. They both know how to fight dirty, and while Andrei has a slight weight advantage, Ilya is faster, so in theory, he would have a fair chance to win. 

He did win last time, but ended up wishing he hadn’t. Andrei went beyond what anyone could call a sore loser. At the beginning of this year, after Ilya had given his brother a black eye, Andrei had gathered some of his charming police friends to welcome Ilya home when he returned from hockey practice the next evening. Ilya then had to sit out practice for almost a month, and it wasn’t worth the fleeting satisfaction he had gotten from seeing the ugly swelling on Andrei’s face. 

So now he just stands there and lets Andrei punch him in the stomach, his own arms hanging limply at his sides. He bends a little at the pain, but bites his tongue to suppress any noise he may have made. He doesn't want to give his brother the pleasure he suspects the asshole would feel, hearing how much he is hurting Ilya.

“I hope Kharlamov finally kicks you out.” Andrei spits out, raining down a few more punches until Ilya is down on his knees, curling in on himself. Then he grabs him by the hair at the back of his head and shoves him face first into the coffee table. 

There’s a crunch. 

That seems to finally satisfy him.

“Should have just stayed gone, you stupid little bitch,” he hisses over his shoulder before leaving Ilya to deal with the warm blood that is trickling from his nose and over his face for the second time this night. 

*****

Ilya knows, rationally, that his father and Andrei are wrong. 

But rational thoughts are hard to come by when you won’t stop bleeding and the iron taste fills your mouth, clogs up your nose, slides down your throat into the roiling mess of hate and stomach acid that is brewing inside of you. 

Ilya shouldn’t have let fucking Hollander distract him, shouldn’t have let him rile Ilya up on the ice the way he did. Mostly, Ilya is mad at himself, but it’s hard not to let some of that anger overflow and direct itself towards Hollander. 

It’s not hard at all to slot this anger in with his other feelings towards his new coach’s son. It fits in perfectly with the curiosity, the desire, the animosity and all the other little components that make him want to both beat the shit and kiss the living daylights out of the other boy every time he looks at him. 

It makes Ilya remember how Sveta once said that the hate sex with one of her exes had been some of the best she’d ever had. 

He texts her then, and half an hour later she is opening her door for him, ice pack in hand and more than happy to help him blow off some steam. 

*****

When Ilya creeps back to his apartment the next morning, he’s relieved to find that his father and Andrei are already gone for the day. However, he runs into Polina in the kitchen, and like every interaction he’s had with his father’s wife in the past three years, it’s tense and awkward. She watches him like a hawk as he makes tea for himself, and he looks back at her with similar disdain. 

Polina is just like his mother, in the sense that she’s way too young and pretty for his father but married him anyway. Ilya wants to feel bad for her, but she knew what she was getting herself into and unlike his mother, she seems to be dealing with it much better. 

The thought makes Ilya hate himself a little. It’s not like he thinks his mother was weak, it’s the opposite really, she was one of the strongest people he’d ever met. But no matter how strong and good at the game you are, sometimes you find yourself facing an opponent you just can’t beat and you still end up losing.

(Sometimes that opponent is you.)

Polina watches him as if she is horrified to see him touching the good porcelain, even though it used to belong to Ilya’s mother and she has no damn claim to it. There’s this strange flicker in her eyes, and it’s become familiar by now. Like she can’t decide whether to fight or fawn somehow. It makes him feel kind of gross. She’s only a little over a decade older than Ilya, his father is in his sixties, and every time he remembers that, it makes him feel like vomiting. 

She’s at the kitchen table finishing her breakfast, and instead of acting like a normal stepmother and asking whether he’d like anything, the only thing she offers Ilya is a lighter as he fishes a cigarette from his pocket. He takes it, holds the cigarette between his lips and inhales as he lights the flame under the tip to make it catch. Polina pulls out a cigarette of her own in the meantime, one of those long slim ones that she smokes, the ones that smell like vanilla and ash. She looks at him expectantly and Ilya takes a step forward to light it for her. She looks at him as she inhales, long and slow, and Ilya averts his eyes. Her nails are absurdly long, there’s an ugly animal print design painted on them, and he wonders if she could even flick the spark wheel with her fingers like this. Probably not. Probably why she gave him the lighter in the first place. 

Neither of them says anything, silently adding smoke to the tension that hangs in the air. Ilya finishes his tea and then his cigarette, the butt of which he extinguishes in the good porcelain tea cup. He sets it back down on the counter before he goes, just to be a dick about it.

At least he knows Polina will not say a word about any of this to his father. She is smart, in her own way, and she knows the best way to avoid catching strays is to not give his father any ammunition in the first place.

*****

Ilya’s nose is bruised far beyond what Hollander’s little headbutt could have done. He knows it even without having to look in the mirror, he can feel the blood throbbing under his skin where it’s spread out below his eyes. It’s not too obvious really, the ice pack Sveta had given him definitely helped and he’s certain his teammates won’t be able to tell that his fight on the ice wasn’t the sole cause for the purple-blue shadows now gracing his face. 

Unfortunately, not everyone is as easily fooled. Kharlamov raises an eyebrow at him when they run into each other in the hallway between the coach’s offices and the locker rooms before practice. Ilya is early as always, and if Sasha hadn’t told him otherwise, he’d be convinced Kharlamov lived at the ice palace. His head coach is wearing the same expression as always, grouchy and unimpressed with the world, but his gaze lingers just a little too long. Ilya is sure that Kharlamov is aware of the trouble he got him into with his family, but maybe he is also wondering whether he and Hollander went for a rematch after the coaches had left. Honestly, it’s a reasonable assumption, judging from how Ilya and Hollander have been constantly at each other’s throats for almost a month now. 

Ultimately, Kharlamov doesn’t ask, and Ilya doesn’t tell. They nod and move along.

A little while later Ilya is sitting in the penalty box again, wearing only the under layers of his usual gear because there’s no point to putting on his helmet and pads if all he is going to do for the next couple of hours is watch the rest of his team practice. 

About ten minutes before they’re set to begin, coach Hollander comes up to Ilya, handing him a piece of paper. 

“It’s the rink’s practice schedule for this week,” she explains, “I’ve circled all the empty slots you and Shane can use.”

Ilya nods in response. Coach Hollander seems satisfied with him indicating he understands, but Ilya can tell by the look on her face that there is something else she wants to say. It’s the same face her son makes. He’s certain there is a comment about the fighting and about the state of his nose just on the tip of her tongue. She lingers for a few beats, but then instead of speaking up just gives him a tight lipped little smile and turns away to move towards the other coaches. 

Ilya has gotten good at reading people, so he can imagine the words coach Hollander swallowed were something along the lines of “You really should have iced that last night after practice.” He can tell she doesn’t like him, and that she is almost definitely assuming that her son was the sole cause underlying the swelling in Ilya’s face - and that she is blaming Ilya for it.

Parents are all the same, he thinks then, they see their children as extensions of themselves and hate when those extensions don’t act the way they want or expect them to.

In the meantime, Hollander has taken his seat in the other penalty box, same as yesterday, and Ilya can feel him staring. Hollander is more perceptive than most of Ilya’s teammates (except maybe the goalies, never discount a goalie, those weirdos see everything) and has spent a good chunk of the previous evening getting up close and personal with Ilya’s face.

The other boy’s expression is more difficult to decipher than his mother’s or coach Kharlamov’s. Sometimes it feels like Hollander is wearing a mask of his own face, that blank expression hiding his thoughts and feelings from the world around him. 

Still, just by combining the fact that he is staring in the first place with the knowledge that they’ve catalogued each other’s injuries last night, Ilya is confident Hollander must be curious about the bruising too.

Too bad for him though, Ilya has no plans on letting him find out what happened after they parted ways last night. 

… Well, maybe he could drop a hint about having stayed over at Sveta’s house, just to see how Hollander would react to that. 

Ilya turns to study the schedule coach Hollander had printed out for him, and then to watch the team as they finally start practice. 

Which he should have been part of, damnit. 

*****

“Usually the other guy’s the one looking worse. You’re not losing spark, are you, Ilyukha?” Kirill teases with a toothy grin after practice is over and they’re all back in the locker room. 

Ilya wants to roll his eyes, but instead he puts on a mock disheartened expression and says “Oh no! I sure hope not,” before letting a wolfish grin of his own spread over his face, voice threatening, “Maybe we should check and make sure, Kirya!”

It earns him a few laughs, and while the others take their gear off and Ilya finishes putting the rest of his on, the guys around him are distracted chirping at each other. No room for any uncomfortable questions that way. 

Hollander is also in the locker room, not next to Ilya in his stall but instead he’s standing with Tóth and some of his friends, talking. He’s nodding along to something Volkin is talking about while making a bunch of over-the-top hand gestures. 

He hasn’t looked in Ilya’s direction since practice started earlier and it’s grating on his nerves. It makes him realize how used he’s become to having those dark eyes follow him around, even though it’s only been a few weeks. 

It feels strange, finally having someone around who can challenge Ilya, someone who is on his level. It feels even stranger to see him interact with Ilya’s team and there’s a voice somewhere in Ilya telling him that ‘I’m the only one actually worthy of Hollander’s attention here, so why is he bothering with the others?’ – The voice kind of grosses Ilya out. It’s needy and validation-seeking and fucking embarrassing. It’s not like he even likes Hollander as a person or is jealous or anything else beyond the fact that Hollander is the first person in a long time, maybe ever, to finally give him a run for his money out on the ice. 

There’s a novelty to that, to competing in that way, and maybe that’s why there is this strange itch under his skin these days. 

Ilya loves new things, new experiences, they remind him that he’s alive. Hockey has always been one of the very few constants, one of the very few exceptions, but now it’s been infused with a breath of fresh air. Suddenly everything feels electric, novelty and familiarity melting together, leaving him buzzing. It’s addictive and Ilya never wants it to stop, wants to bottle the feeling and keep it forever, the best high he’s ever had. 

Hollander is that itch under his skin and Ilya wants to scratch until he’s bleeding because fuck if it isn’t satisfying to do so. 

*****

They end up back to back when they finally get on the ice, Hollander still avoiding him and Ilya finds there is nothing worse than an itch you can’t quite reach.

Hollander is off to one side of the rink working on his shot accuracy with total focus. Ilya is tempted to chirp him and snap him out of it, maybe even start a fight, but he knows Kharlamov is still stalking around the building somewhere. He loves hockey too much to risk starting shit where his head coach can see, especially now that the man has proven he means business, selling him out to his father. (What an asshole, honestly.)

Instead, Ilya decides to use the open goal on the other side of the rink to work on his puck handling, switching between backhand and forehand shots and balancing the puck. He wants to further perfect his deking, the expression of confused anger on an opposing player’s face when they realize he’s managed to fake them out is incredibly satisfying to him. He has a specific move in mind, no one has ever pulled off anything like it, at least to his knowledge. Theoretically, it should be possible, but practically, getting it right requires absolute focus and precision, hard to come by in the chaos of an actual hockey game. 

After around 45 minutes of trying to ignore Hollander’s presence behind him, Ilya’s attention is drawn by someone clearing their throat. Zhukov is standing behind the boards at the entrance to the rink with a petulant expression. 

“Время истекло. Они ждут вместе с ледовым комбайном,” he announces, then immediately turns around to leave again, not looking back to see whether Ilya and Hollander would actually listen and leave. Zhukov brings that half-assed energy to everything he does and Ilya wonders why the hell Kharlamov hasn’t kicked him out yet, he sucks at coaching.

It’s tempting to ignore Zhukov, maybe act like he’s never been here at all and try to get him in trouble that way. Zhukov clearly would have preferred to be anywhere else, which would work in his favor, but there’s a witness to his potential perjury. Plus, Ilya likes the guy who drives the arena’s ice resurfacer. He will often stick around a little longer to let Ilya have some ice time to himself after practices, so he doesn’t want to inconvenience him now. 

Ilya turns to skate towards the exit and (finally!) finds Hollander looking at him.

“What did he say?”, he says, looking from Ilya to where Zhukov disappeared and back.

“Time is finished. The… uhm… ice machine will come.” 

Hollander’s mask slips a bit, he looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek to hide a grin, and Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. 

“You mean the Zamboni, right? It’s called an ice resurfacer in English. An ice machine is something else entirely, those are the things that literally make ice. Like, for drinks, for example.”

“Ah, спасибо, Professor Hollander, this I will remember,” Ilya replies with mock gratitude, then adds “But is Olympia brand ice re-sur-fa-cer, not Zamboni,” with a shrug. 

Hollander snorts at that, the previously suppressed grin spreading across his face. He’s looking at Ilya with an amused twinkle in his eyes, “You’re such an asshole.”

*****

By the time they get to the locker room, it’s quiet again, Hollander has put his mask back on and is looking everywhere but at Ilya. 

How annoying.

Still, Ilya discovers an upside to the other boy’s weird avoidant behavior when they get to the showers after taking their gear off. It gives Ilya the opportunity to thoroughly check out Hollander’s backside while the other is busy staring down the ugly tiles of the communal shower area. 

Hollander's terrible haircut only looks half bad from the back, or maybe that's just because his hair is wet. Water is running from his head to his neck and on down, and Ilya tracks one of the droplets. There’s a few freckles spreading over his shoulders, slowly disappearing the further Ilya’s gaze drifts down his arms and back. 

Hollander's skin looks smooth, slightly tanned and Ilya knows how soft and warm it is. He wonders whether Hollander’s freckles are the kind that disappear in winter. Down, down down, there are dimples on his back, just above his ass. He could see his thumbs pressing into those dimples, grabbing at Hollander’s hips before sliding his hands further down to cup his ass, which is round and firm and - yeah, Ilya should get back to washing himself because this doesn’t seem like the time or the place for popping a boner right now. 

The awkward silence continues until Ilya finally decides to break it as they’re both getting dressed again. “Okay, what is it?” he asks, turning towards Hollander who is sitting on the bench next to him, pulling on his socks. 

The other boy looks at him then, “What do you mean, what?”

“You are strange all day. Not helping with making up like coach wants, yeah? So tell me what is problem.”

Hollander looks caught, bites his lip and Ilya can practically hear him thinking. It takes him a while and a lot more nervous chewing on his bottom lip before he answers, “What happened to your nose?”

Ilya wonders if Hollander is aware his lip biting is both kinda hot and also threatening to reopen the wound from their scuffle the day before. “You hit me good yesterday, don’t say you forget already?”, he tries putting on his most convincing grin.

It’s clear though that Hollander doesn’t quite buy his lie. A tiny conflicted expression flashes over his face before it settles into infuriating impassiveness again, as usual, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Is that why you are so weird today? My nose?” Ilya starts again. He knows how to steer a conversation and he has a specific plan for where he actually wants this one to go. 

Hollander’s looking caught once more, and this time his biting causes his lip to split open again, just the tiniest bit. Ilya can see the blood, and can see the way Hollander’s tongue darts out of his mouth to lick it up. 

“I mean… ” Hollander starts. His eyes are drifting all over the place and Ilya is getting fed up with it, the nervous energy coming off of him is suffocating. “Yes, but also no? Just… everything that happened yesterday. It’s a terrible idea, really. But… “

“But what?”

The silence lasts too long. Or maybe Ilya is just impatient.

“... But, hypothetically speaking, what if I were curious?”, finally those dark eyes land on Ilya’s face and stay there. 

How strange, Ilya thinks, this is the part where most other people would look away.

Ilya hesitates for a moment, then teases, “Hy-po-thet-i-cal-ly. Гипотетически. Big word, Hollander,” instead of answering directly and Hollander’s brow furrows in frustration. 

“You’re such a dick, I don’t know why I even –”

“Relax, Hollander, okay? Means just that, you are curious. That is it.”, Ilya shrugs, hoping to placate the other a little. “Is not a bad thing.”

“You…  you wouldn’t tell anyone, right? If we, uh, were to do anything? Because no one can know.”  

The joy of watching Hollander get all pink and flustered is briefly interrupted by the phantom taste of blood in Ilya’s mouth, before he manages to refocus on the other’s words.

 “Like, no one could ever know. And it’s not like I’m gay or anything, not that that’s a bad thing, but I don’t think… Um. I just want to try, I guess, kinda like practising? There’s this girl at my school and – well, nevermind. But, yeah, that.” 

“Боже мой, slow down. I will not tell, I’m not an idiot,” Ilya sighs, “Is Russia, yeah? I say already, I am curious too, so is same secret. I don’t tell, you don’t tell – is safe.”

“But if someone found out, then…”

“Hollander, you are here for one month more, да? Little time for someone to find out, we are careful, we do not tell. This is, uhm, … limited time offer.”

The reassurances seem to calm Hollander down a little. Ilya can see him thinking again, abusing his bottom lip again, but it doesn’t seem like he will say anything else.

Ilya sighs and finishes tying his shoes, then gets up. “Think, okay? If you are still curious later,” he crams out the schedule coach Hollander had given him earlier and points to one of the slots circled in red, “I will be working out at gym here tomorrow night. No regular practice that day, so no one is around then.”

Hollander nods to signal his understanding, which is good enough Ilya supposes as he proceeds to grab his bag and leaves to step out into the warm afternoon sun. Judging by how pink Hollander’s cheeks were, Ilya has him exactly where he wants him. 

*****

Ilya ends up back at Sveta’s place, he’s not exactly itching to spend more time with his family with the way things currently are. Plus, her place is closer to the ice palace. He has a drawer in one of her dressers, it’s basically his second home anyways, and Ilya certainly feels more welcome there. 

Sveta texted him that her parents aren’t home and that the door is open, so he lets himself in. 

The house is quiet, like his own home so often is, but unlike his family’s apartment, the silence here feels comfortable, calm instead of charged. Ilya kicks off his sneakers next to the door and puts his equipment bag down in the little alcove in the hallway, same as always. There’s a row of photographs decorating the wall here, and Ilya’s eyes always linger on the same one, every time he passes it. 

The picture is grainy and overexposed. It shows a little Sveta and a little Ilya, both probably around 4 years old, playing in the overly bright snow in front of a park bench with two women sitting and watching them. They look so much like their mothers, all four of them red-faced from the cold and smiling. Every time it hits him like a baseball bat to the head, his mom looks so young here, so much brighter than in the memories he has of her from when he got older. His father took down all her pictures in their own home. Ilya keeps some of them in his room now, but this is the widest he has ever seen her smile in any of them. 

“Hello Mama,” he whispers before continuing along the familiar path further down the hall and up the stairs. 

*****

Sveta is in her bedroom upstairs, painting her nails a bright, warm orange color while carefully scrolling on the trackpad of her laptop. Her stereo is softly playing some pop song Ilya has never heard before.

“Have you seen it already? Chicago traded for the number one draft pick this year, got themselves a new winger. Some kid from Buffalo, terrible hairline, played in Canada before that,” she tells him, not looking up from where she’s now carefully painting her left pinkie. Ilya hums in acknowledgement, he keeps up with NHL news and the draft is a huge deal. 

“Could not be you,” she continues, “with the terrible hairline, I mean. Two more years and you might be the first pick.”

“Oh, I might?” Ilya reacts with part mock, part real offense. 

“From what I hear your new best friend Shane Hollander could be a close contender, might make it a bit more challenging for you.” Sveta grins, “And a bit more interesting for everyone else, me included.”

“Urgh,” Ilya rolls his eyes and lets himself drop onto the bed next to her, gently nudging her to make a little more space and staring up at the ceiling. 

“What, am I wrong?” Sveta snickers, “Sasha said that his dad is working hard to make the two of you get along. Very cute, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you though. How does Sasha even know that? I thought he was in Spain or something?”

“Portugal, actually. Did you forget phones exist? Also, he complained that you’re not replying to his emails, by the way.”

“There are only so many ways to reply to Sasha emailing me constant pictures of himself on some beach or other,” Ilya sighs. The pictures were hot, kind of slutty, great really, but he hadn’t exactly been in the headspace to extensively indulge Sasha’s vanity these days. Under different circumstances those pictures would absolutely be doing something for Ilya, and a month or so ago he would have been elated to receive, probably. But currently there’s other things occupying his mind, and there’s not enough bandwidth left to consider the itty bitty bathing suits Sasha wears somewhere on the other side of the continent. 

Sveta shuts her laptop and shoves it aside, then rolls over to curl up against Ilya’s side, still holding out her left hand where the orange nail polish is drying. It’s a pretty shade, compliments her skin and her hair. 

“Distracted by your new best friend Shane Hollander?” she’s smirking at him, nudging him with her shoulder. 

Ilya turns to her, “Scared he will take your place as my favorite, are you?”

“Oh, has he done anything worthy of that kind of favoritism yet?” The way she wiggles her eyebrows is a challenge Ilya can’t refuse. Within the blink of an eye he turns over to get on top of her, tickling her sides without mercy. She’s laughing and kicking her legs underneath him, pushing at him with her right hand.

He finally lets up, under threat of death should his clownery fuck up her nails, and Ilya knows better than to mess with Sveta’s little beauty routines. 

“I might see him tomorrow night,” he tells her then, when they’re both back next to each other, staring at the ceiling together now. There’s a bit of glue residue up there, from where Sveta used to have little glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to her walls and ceiling, years ago. Ilya misses those stars.

Sveta is still a bit breathless from his attack, but he’s clearly piqued her interest. 

“Is that so?” she says, and Ilya knows there is a predatory grin on her face without even having to look, just by the tone of her voice. He hums, and she keeps prodding, “So, is that it, finally? Are you going to fuck him?”

Ilya shrugs noncommittally.

“I must say, I’m starting to think you’re off your game here, Ilyusha. Actually, I don’t think it’s ever taken you this long to get someone into bed with you, and you’re not usually the type to chase.”

Ilya wants to point out that it’s only been a few weeks since Sveta declared that he and Hollander should just fuck it out to relieve some of the tension that was clearly building between them. She is right though. In any other case he would have long since succeeded or lost interest, he’s never been very patient and there were always other options. 

Instead, he says nothing and Sveta presses on, nosy as always, “So, are you? Going to fuck him, I mean. We both know you want to.”

This time he takes a moment to consider her question. Is he going to fuck Hollander? Is Hollander even going to show up? And if so, then what exactly would they do?

Ilya takes a deep breath. Sveta is probably the only person he can be honest with, always has been, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hard. 

“I don’t know, honestly,” he starts, “Yeah, I want to but, fuck, it’s such a bad idea. It’s dangerous but I guess that’s what makes it so fucking hot and I should probably care more about that but I don’t, I just want to.” 

Ilya swallows then, “I just want to be good at it.”

Sveta shifts next to him until she’s close enough to lean her head against his, eyes still looking straight up. After a while she says, “Do you want some tips?”, and well, if that isn’t an intriguing offer, then Ilya doesn’t know what is. 

Chapter End Notes

I wanted to get inside of Ilya's head a little more this time around, see how he acts and reacts, what his life looks like at this point in time. Not sure my experiment was totally successful, but I definitely enjoyed it!

I noticed I'm kind of mixing book and show elements at times, and I hope it doesn't get too confusing. Absolutely adore how Svetlana is portrayed in the show as being Ilya's childhood friend, so I decided I definitely want that to be the case here too. I love making these two interact, and I love that there is a safe space out there for Ilya with her, he definitely needs it.

Next time there will be more Shane again, and worry not, dear reader, the smut will be back too.

 

As for the hockey broadcasting portion of this author's note: Home team won their game against the team from my uni town! And then, as is becoming tradition now (maybe), they proceeded to suffer defeat right after. Next game is tonight and I found out that my home country's league games actually do get streamed, so now I'm considering whether I'm invested enough to pay for a season pass to watch it.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

My mom used to say "Puberty is when your parents get weird," and she might be onto something there.
All those hormones make you act before you think, and sometimes that can be a good thing.

Moscow, August 2007

"Really, Shane, I still can’t believe you,” his mother starts for what must be at least the 7th time since Monday evening. 

They are sitting around the table for breakfast, just the two of them since his dad had to leave early for an important meeting with some guy from the embassy before an even more important meeting with some minister later this morning. (That would probably be followed by an even more important meeting, and so on, if Shane were to guess.)

He’s back from his morning run and the usual smoothie his mother makes for him is sitting on the table before him. Other people might take that as an indication that she wasn’t that mad, but he knew better. This is just coach Hollander doing her job, which included making sure Shane sticks to his nutrition plan.

Shane takes a sip and she continues with a huff, “I know you didn’t want to come here and would have preferred to spend the summer back home as usual, but you know full well that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for all of us, you as well.” He nods his head and hums, signaling that he was listening to her scolding. 

"You get to witness a whole different style of coaching from what you are used to, practice cooperating with team mates from a vastly different cultural background, and of course, yes, there’s Rozanov!” Her voice always gets a little shrill when she’s agitated, and Shane hopes he doesn’t actually flinch at the mention of the boy’s name, but he definitely feels the hair at the back of his neck sticking up. 

Either way, his mother doesn’t seem to notice and goes on, “What were you thinking? You knew that kid was an instigator before we even came here. I thought you were prepared, I thought this would be a good chance for you to learn more about the international competition that you will have to face at next year’s championships. Instead you start acting like a totally different person, antagonizing him and starting fights - really, Shane, that might be Rozanov, but that’s not you!” She sighs and shakes her head, “I just don’t understand, what has gotten into you lately?”

By now Shane knows she’s not actually expecting an answer and that trying to defend himself won’t do him any good. His mother will just see it as an excuse, and it’s not like he has an actual explanation for what is going on. Sorry mom. Rozanov, or more specifically, his tongue, is what’s gotten into me. Yeah, he’s definitely not telling her that, for several reasons. 

If he’s honest with himself, he also doesn’t think that is all there is to it, even though the whole making-out-with-the-competition thing definitely plays its part. No, the bigger thing is that it’s been a long time since Shane has even had any real competition. He even can’t recall it now, when was the last time that he wasn’t the best player on the ice? 

He loves hockey and it’s been such a big constant for so long, always the same. But ever since coming to Moscow it feels like the sport he loves and knows inside-out is rapidly changing right before his eyes. Suddenly, Shane is no longer the best, at least not unequivocally, now he has some serious competition for that top spot. It’s scary and it hurts, Shane has never been good at dealing with change, and this is a huge one, a life-altering one. Rozanov is rattling the foundations of everything he thought he knew, and he’s so fucking casual about it too, to add insult to injury. 

Yet, at the same time, Shane also hasn’t had this much fun playing hockey in ages. It feels so contradictory and it’s incredibly confusing, but the rush of endorphins he gets just from scoring on Rozanov is better than any victory that came before. He has to work hard for it, and nothing else has ever been as rewarding. (He would never admit that to anyone, especially not his mother, he thinks it would break her heart.)

Shane doesn’t just love hockey, it’s everything to him. It’s what he gets out of bed for in the mornings, everything he ever does is about hockey in one way or another. It’s like at least 50% of his mind is constantly busy chasing a puck through his brain, no matter what else is happening around him. The only time he’s completely focussed is when he’s actually physically on the ice. 

And, maybe, that one day when Rozanov had kissed him in the locker room. The eternal skating inside his mind had slowed down just a fraction, the sounds of blades and sticks on ice had gone quieter for a little while. It was terrifying. 

It still terrifies him. 

It still intrigues him, too. 

Shane was so, so, so curious. 

“... you have a lot to make up for, with me and with Kharlamov. Mon dieu, the man is giving you a chance here, both of us, really, and you better not mess it up again, because this will be the last one,” his mother concludes her speech. 

Shane has almost finished his smoothie, which had way more spinach in it than it usually does. It makes his teeth feel strange and he sincerely hopes he hasn’t missed anything important while zoning out. She would never let him hear the end of it. 

“So, have you and Rozanov gotten any closer?”

Shane almost chokes on his last sip of the too-green smoothie. 

“W-what?” He coughs. 

His mother makes that little sighing noise, the one she always makes when she’s starting to really lose her patience with him. “Have you two gotten any closer to figuring out how you can work together?”, she clarifies and the panic that had been threatening to freeze Shane’s lung melts away again. 

“Oh, that, yeah,” he gathers himself, clears his throat to stall for time and to give himself a minute to process the words and his near death experience, courtesy of blended produce. 

“We talked, err, after practice yesterday,” he starts, looking down at the empty glass, “I think that, maybe, we can find a way. He is going to the arena gym later tonight and asked if I want to come too, so I assume that means- ” that he wants to kiss me again, “- that he also wants to make this work. For the time that we’re still here, anyway.” He hopes he sounds normal, responsible, like the kind of son and player his mother expects him to be. 

“You should go.” 

*****

Maybe he shouldn’t have told his mother about how Rozanov had invited him to work out together, but it’s already so difficult to hide things from her, and getting by on half-truths is a lot less stressful. It’s much better than the alternative, where Shane ends up collecting secrets until he bursts and then accidentally tells her the truth about how Rozanov pretty much propositioned him for some kind of sexual encounter at the CSKA arena’s training facilities. 

After Shane had heavily implied that he would be interested in participating in that kind of encounter, that is. 

Now he was fucked. 

Or, well, not fucked yet? But he would be? Maybe? 

Point being, he told his mother and now he didn’t really have a way out anymore, not with her encouraging him to get closer with Rozanov. Urgh, why did she have to put it that way?

What is even worse than losing his escape route is that he now has to admit to himself that, deep down, he knows he wouldn’t have ended up taking it anyway. Shane is so full of anxiety, constant panic simmering under the surface, the sound of metal and rubber scraping over a cold, smooth surface – and still, against all odds, the curiosity is winning. 

He’s been thinking about it pretty much non-stop, since the first day really, but even more so after what happened in the equipment room on Monday, and especially after what Rozanov had told him yesterday afternoon. 

“Limited-time offer” he had called it, like this was some weird sales pitch, and the more Shane thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d been trying to swing back and forth between going or not going, because he’s sure he should be more conflicted about it, but despite all the bright red warning signs, not going doesn’t feel like a real option. 

It is still fucked up, he knows that, but it’s probably the only opportunity he will ever get. 

Rozanov is right, Shane is only here for one more month. After that it’s back to being at school, being around his parents, being on home ice, being under the spotlight. It’s not like he’s going to move here and become Rozanov’s permanent team mate, or even like he has any plans to ever come back to Moscow once he leaves. 

No, once he leaves, he will go back to being the Shane Hollander his mother knows. He’ll… simply have some more experience. And that experience will make it easier to ask out Jennifer from Math class, and that will be great because he’ll finally get to understand all the girl conversations his class and team mates insist on having almost constantly. It will be great. He’ll be chosen for the 2008 junior world championships, and he’ll win. Then he’ll get drafted to the NHL, first overall, and then he’ll win the championships once more before officially starting his career in the league, which will keep him busy for decades after. 

His mind will be back to normal, 50% blades on ice at all times, and he won’t even have time to think about another boy in that way, let alone do anything about it. 

(Which, by the way, doesn’t mean anything. Shane does his research, Shane plays hockey, Shane is pretty sure this doesn’t mean that he is gay.)

To Shane, Moscow will be the Las Vegas of Europe. What happens there, stays there. He will take a gamble tonight and-

His brilliant metaphor is interrupted by his phone’s message tone. 

Radoslav Tóth (CSKA): Hey, are we still on for lunch?

Oh shit, Shane almost forgot. Yesterday after practice Radoslav had invited him to go out for lunch again. This time some of the other CSKA junior players were going to come along, and now Shane was cutting it so close, he didn’t even have time to be nervous about it. 

Me: Yes! Same place as last time, right? I’ll be there!

*****

“Hollzy, my man!” Tóth is out of his seat, putting on a ridiculous American accent and walking to greet him as soon as Shane enters the little café. He stops just short of Shane’s personal space, hesitates for the briefest of moments, and then offers his hand.

Last time they grabbed lunch, Shane had told him that he wasn’t used to all the hugging that seemed to be going on here at all times. (Tóth had laughed and asked if Canadians don’t hug their friends when they greet each other. Shane wasn’t sure, he didn’t really have friends at home. He’d hugged some of his team mates during cellies, but those were usually big group hugs and probably didn’t count. And it was kind of pathetic. So of course, he didn’t say any of that out loud and just shook his head no instead.) It’s nice that Tóth remembered, and Shane takes his hand and shakes it, “Hey man, good to see you.”

Tóth leads him to a round table in the corner, where Volkin is already sitting and smiling at them. Shane greets Volkin with a handshake as well, and they sit down, immediately proceeding to talk about everything and nothing for a good five minutes before the other two guys they had still been expecting show up; Lipovsky and Toivanen.

The whole greeting ritual is a little more awkward this time around, as the others all hug and Shane keeps his distance, shaking their hands. It’s not that he’s totally opposed to hugging friends, he just isn’t sure they’re close enough for that yet and still needs some time to get used to the idea overall. 

It’s okay though, because the awkwardness dissipates fast. They sit down and chatter and then are reminded that they should order something by a grumpy little old lad in an apron. The menu is in Russian (duh), and the other four boys talk over each other, laughing, as they’re trying to explain different items to Shane. (Maybe he could see himself hugging them at some point, it might be nice.)

Tóth orders for Shane when the little old lady comes back, and then the conversation turns to some new CD Volkin got. Shane doesn’t really listen to music, but it’s fun to hear the others talk about it. They’re making an effort to keep it in English, even though he isn’t saying much and it’s a second or even third language for all of them. Shane wonders if any of his team mates from back home would make that kind of effort to include him.

He ends up eating Shchi and Pelmeni, and he’d better not tell his mother about that because those are definitely not part of her nutrition plan. Well, he could probably get away with the Shchi, it’s cabbage soup and probably not too offensive in terms of macronutrients. So if she asks, this is the kind of half-truth Shane will tell her, she’ll never have to know about the dumplings.

Over the course of lunch he learns a lot about the other boys at the table. He learns that Volkin isn’t Russian, like Shane had assumed, he is Czech, and he has a huge music collection. He can hum entire albums by heart and does so during games and practice (goalies, man, they’re strange). His latest favorite album is by some French duo that makes electro house, whatever that was. 

He learns that Lipovsky is the only real Russian at the table with them and that he is not actually surgically attached to Galkin (and Rozanov, those three are on the same line and always together it seems), but he and Toivanen have been on the same hockey teams together since they were 8 years old. Toivanen doesn’t talk a lot, but Lipovsky more than makes up for it. 

He learns that Tóth has two younger brothers who also play hockey (on U15 and U13 teams, respectively), and that he’s sorry they keep getting his hand-me-downs. They only have very little practice during the summer, so they’re home almost all the time and the three of them are apparently starting to really drive each other insane. Apparently, they’re simultaneously spawns of satan and good kids. (Having siblings sounds nice, but also like Shane wouldn’t be able to stand it for longer than a day or two.)

All of them ask a lot of questions in between, so Shane is sure they learn quite a bit about him as well. The thought makes him feel strangely vulnerable, but none of them seem like they’re ready to use any of this information to plot his downfall. Still, he answers carefully. They learn that Shane is an only child, has no clue about music, has been skating since he was 3 years old. He can tell they’re curious about his mom and how exactly she ended up coaching their team, but they’re polite enough not to ask outright, and they don’t laugh at him when most of his answers to their questions relate to hockey in one way or another. 

At some point the conversation takes a turn towards girls, and Shane’s stomach does a little flip but then calms down again when things don’t start off getting explicit from the first sentence. Instead, the only difficult question Shane has to navigate is when they ask if he has a girlfriend back in Canada, to which he just says no and they accept it. Turns out, the main point of the conversation is that Lipovsky wants to tease Tóth about some girl he has a crush on, and who Lipovsky will see at a party this weekend. 

“You want to come also, Radek?” Lipovsky wiggles his eyebrows, and Tóth responds “Fuck off, Kirya,” which Shane has actually heard a few times before in the locker room, and which is how the conversation then ends up turning away from girls and instead shifts to discuss how weird Russian nicknames are. 

“Hollzy is very cool, but would never happen in Russia,” Volkin announces while the others nod gravely. Then they start suggesting a bunch of horrible Russian-ized nicknames for Shane (Shanka, Shayusha, Shanek, Shanyechka? No thanks) before they all agree that Hollzy is probably the best option after all. (Shane would also be fine with Hollz and Holly, but never Hollywood.) 

Before any of them realise, three hours have passed and the little old lady looks like she’s ready to kick them out with the help of her broomstick if they don’t order more stuff, so they decide to call it a day. 

Shane had way more fun than he expected, and he tells Tóth so on their shared way to the metro station, after the other three have split off. Tóth doesn’t make fun of him for it but instead says he’s glad.

When Shane is alone again, he wonders what nickname Rozanov’s friends call him. 

Maybe he could ask him tonight? Or would that be lame? It’s not like they’re ever going to be friends, so it would really just be out of curiosity and…

… oh god, tonight. He is going to see Rozanov at the gym tonight.

*****

By the time Shane arrives back at the apartment, his mom is busy reviewing tape at the kitchen table. Usually he would join her and it would probably be a nice distraction from his racing thoughts, but he doesn’t really want to be that close to her right now.

Before he left for lunch earlier, she had reminded him of what he could and could not eat and how he should try to make a positive, professional impression on his temporary team mates. She also informed him that he needed to be home before a certain time because she would take him to the CSKA arena herself. Now it was well before that time (she was usually generous in those matters), but as he walks through the door, she looks up and he sees the surprise on her face. It’s clear she had expected him back much earlier, and it kind of stings.  

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

Hollander is already at the gym by the time Ilya gets there, because of course he is. It works in Ilya’s favor though, because he likes to make an entrance. This time around he’s not showing up after several hours of practice and a quick locker room shower. No, this time he made a conscious effort and he even let Sveta put a little makeup over the bruising on his face. Ilya looks fucking hot and he knows it. 

What he doesn’t totally expect is that Hollander does too. Or maybe it’s just because the other boy is currently on the floor doing some really interesting stretches that make his gym shorts ride up his thighs. Currently, his legs are folded underneath him and he is face-down on a yoga mat, stretching his arms forward. (It looks like he’s praying, or worshipping, and isn’t that a nice idea.)

“This how you always do warm-up?” Ilya asks, stepping in front of Hollander and the other flinches, clearly not having heard him enter. 

He freezes for a moment, then slowly raises his torso from the floor to sit up, “Well, yeah, actually. It’s yoga, I think stretching is - oh,” he looks at Ilya and, yeah, Ilya knows, oh.

“Uh… stretching is important,” Hollander finishes lamely, eyes plastered to Ilya’s body. It has to be the least subtle way in which Ilya has ever been checked out, but it feels good to have Hollander’s eyes on him, especially like this, with Hollander kneeling on the floor and looking up at him. 

“Okay,” Ilya says and then plops down on one of the yoga mats spread out around the one Hollander is sitting on, “Show me, how do you do this?”

It’s clearly not what he’d expected, Hollander’s eyes go comically wide for a second before he schools his expression, “Sure, if you want.”

He rearranges his legs so that they’re kicked out behind him, hips to the floor and propping his torso up with his arms. “This is, uh, the cobra pose,” he arches his back and Ilya watches the way his muscles flex, “It’s good for opening up your chest and shoulders.”

“Interesting,” Ilya says, voice flat, and Hollander rolls his eyes at him.

“You asked, asshole.”

“No, no, sorry, really, is interesting,” Ilya grins, tone sarcastic, and then he leans forward into Hollander’s space. “Stretches this part, yeah?” he gently presses his fingers into one of Hollander’s pecs. 

“Uh, yeah, exactly,” Hollander doesn’t move away. He doesn’t lean in either. He just waits.

“What else?”

Hollander swallows and seems to think for a long moment, then shifts, pulling one of his legs forward and folding it in front of him while the other remains kicked out behind his back. There’s a little smile on his lips as he turns to Ilya to explain, “This is called the pigeon pose, it’s supposed to… uhm, help stretch your hips, thighs and glutes.”

Okay, Ilya hadn’t expected that. Hollander clearly picked up on the game he is trying to play here way faster than expected. There’s a flicker of annoyance before the sight of Hollander’s thighs makes him decide that, actually, this is a good thing. He reaches his hand out again, looking at Hollander to give him the opportunity to stop him, before he places it on the back of his kicked out leg, running his fingers up and over the fabric of his (damn, very short) shorts. 

“Looks like goalie stretch,” Ilya teases, and Hollander snorts.

“You only say that because you wouldn’t be able to do it.”

He’s got him there. Not because Ilya lacks flexibility, but because he is terrible at resisting challenges, especially when they’re this bold. So while Hollander switches his legs around, Ilya indulges him and tries to copy the pose. It’s not as easy as Hollander makes it look, but also not too difficult. 

“You have to straighten your leg out a little more,” he says and moves a little closer to Ilya, “like this, see.” His hands are warm on Ilya’s thigh as he adjusts his leg placement. The correction is precise, clinical. Except Hollander’s fingers linger a second too long to be accidental. Maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to feel Ilya up, which Ilya is completely on board with.

“And you need to tilt your hip a little more, like this,” the hand drags all the way from Ilya’s thigh up to his hip without breaking contact. This whole ordeal is definitely mostly about feeling him up, and Ilya feels incredibly smug about it. 

After a few seconds of holding the stretch, he moves to switch around his legs the same way Hollander did earlier. “Is right like this?” he asks, grinning. Hollander smiles back, putting his hand on Ilya’s other thigh to move it a few centimeters. The touch lingers.

“You are trying to distract from my warm-up?” Ilya smirks.

“I take warming up very seriously,” Hollander responds with a grave nod, hand still on his thigh. Funny.

Ilya releases the pose and sits with his long legs crossed in front of him, then reaches his arms up to stretch them out a bit. Hollander tracks the movement with desire plain in his eyes, lips parted. 

“What else?” Ilya asks expectantly.

*****

After five more yoga poses and way more touching than would have been necessary to correct even the worst of students, Ilya feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. 

“Is fun and all,” he starts dryly, making it obvious that he’s looking at Hollander’s ass while the other is holding a stretch that is supposedly good for your lower back, “but maybe we are done with warm-up now, yeah?”

Hollander nods and swallows, slowly releasing and shuffling to sit back down on his yoga mat, closer to Ilya than he was before. 

Ilya leans in a little more, further decreasing the space between them. Hollander’s breath hitches. He looks at Hollander’s eyes, then his lips, licking his own before looking back up and then asks, “So… weight training, or running?” with a mischievous smirk.

Hollander’s breathing stalls for a second, a sour expression spreads over his face and then he huffs, “You really are an asshole.” It only makes Ilya grin wider, he loves it when he can see what the other is thinking. 

Undeterred, he moves in close enough to be able to whisper in Hollander’s ear, “Is my best quality, you know?” and Hollander tries and fails not to snort out a laugh at that. 

“So, tell me, what do you think?” Ilya asks again, lips almost brushing Hollander’s ear now. He can see a shiver run through the other boy.

“Umm… maybe, maybe we should talk about this first?” Hollander says, which – of course. Even now, Hollander wants there to be rules he can follow.

“We are talking, Hollander. I ask question, you don’t answer,” Ilya is close enough to feel the heat blooming across Hollander’s cheeks, “But I did not come to talk - or work out. Did you?”

Hollander swallows again, “... No, not really.”

“Not really? So, what then?” Ilya pulls back to look at him. 

Hollander is flushed and biting his lips again, the way he seems to do every time he’s thinking about something interesting. It’s endearing, but Ilya isn’t patient enough to wait for Hollander’s brain to catch up to his dick right now. Instead of waiting for a response, he leans back in and gently pushes Hollander backwards. Hollander’s hands close briefly around Ilya’s wrist — not to stop him. Just to feel it. And Ilya makes sure the other doesn’t actually hit his head or anything but ends up on his flat back nonetheless. 

Ilya is looming over the other boy, smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth as Hollander scowls up at him. Before he can voice his complaints though, Ilya bends down to let his lips ghost over the shell of Hollander’s ear and slips his hand under his shirt, running his fingertips up Hollander’s waist. “Came here for this?” 

Another hitch in his breathing and “... yeah. This.”

Hollander’s skin is warm and smooth under Ilya’s calloused hands, kind of like the girls Ilya will go home with sometimes. He traces along his ribs up to his sternum, then down his abs. Soft flesh over hard muscles, unlike those girls. He smells nice, soapy and kind of spicy. Ilya shifts to press one of his legs between Hollander’s, and he can feel the other twitch as he asks again in Russian, “Это то, чего ты хочешь?”

He’s pretty sure Hollander couldn’t actually understand what he just said, but the other boy nods anyway. Trusting? Or maybe reckless? 

Ilya lets his other hand brush over the hollow of Hollander’s throat, gently scraping his nails down his neck and to his collarbone and up again. He traces the same path with his tongue and Hollander sighs, shivering a little. Ilya does it again, enjoying the taste of his skin.

“Why… why are you so good at this?” Hollander mumbles. He sounds a little frustrated and Ilya is delighted. 

“Hmm… natural talent maybe?”

“Urgh, fuck off.”

Ilya chuckles at that, pulling back from Hollander’s throat to look down at him before he answers, “I don’t think is what you want,” and then adds, honestly, “I’m good at this because I watch, yes? Give attention to partner.”

Hollander is looking up at him, eyes dark and cheeks pink, intrigued. He looks too good, really. So good, it almost makes him forget where they are.

“We should not be here, go somewhere else, okay?”, Ilya says and pulls away, enjoying the way Hollander quietly whines at the loss of contact. He pulls the other boy up with him, then nods his head to the door of the gym, “We find one with lock.”

“Uh huh, yeah, good… good idea,” the other stammers and Ilya is pretty sure anything he could suggest would seem a good idea to Hollander at this point. What a marvellous feeling. Dangerous too – but marvellous.

*****

Ilya pulls a key ring out of his pocket, picks out a key with a green cap on it, and slides it into the lock of the second door to the left. Thank god for Sveta, thank god for Sergei Vetrov trusting his little princess with absolutely everything. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, revealing a small, windowless office. There’s a desk and some shelves, neat folders and stacks of video tapes. There is a tiny little TV on a filing cabinet, and on the opposite side of the room; a couch. Perfect.

Hollander is behind him in the hallway, hesitating before Ilya pulls him along into the room. He flicks on the little lamp on the desk, then closes the door.

“Is office for superleague team staff, all on holiday. And locks, see?”, Ilya fits the key back into the lock from the other side of the door this time and turns it. 

“How’d you even get the keys?” Hollander asks.

“Can’t tell you all my tricks first time, Hollander,” he laughs and then, oh fuck, that sounds as though there might be a second time, which is not something Ilya wants to think about right now, so he quickly brushes it off, moving on.

“Tell me, Hollander, what are you curious about?” He steps toward the other, crowding him back against the desk and watches as Hollander starts biting his lips again, thinking. Things are going pretty well so far, but Ilya still feels a little nervous, too excited. Simultaneously, that’s the whole point of this, the rush of dopamine, doing something new, something forbidden.

“I’m curious what you look like under your clothes.” Hollander finally responds and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, his eyes widen a little, shocked at having said it out loud. 

It settles Ilya’s nerves a little. He likes this game, the teasing and building anticipation, and Hollander plays along without even knowing the rules it seems. It makes him think of the last time he had sex in an office, or, what probably had been an office at some point. Of the girl there that had pretended to be shy as soon as they were alone, even though what she wanted was clearly written all over her face. 

Hollander doesn’t play like that, he doesn’t pretend. The moments in which he is shy are genuine, and so are the moments in which he is bold, which occur more often than Ilya would have expected. It’s as though Hollander hasn’t learned how to hide these parts of himself yet, doesn’t know how to fit them under that mask of his. It’s so much more fun to play like this.  

“You see every practice, locker room, shower, … in equipment room two days ago… ,” Ilya starts teasingly.

“I try not to peek,” Hollander says, and then “… wait, do you?”

“You asking if I look at you in showers?”

“Uhm…”

Ilya leans in close to him, looking into his eyes before admitting, “I do”. He can see the black of Hollander’s pupils expanding just a fraction further over his irises. His freckles look good against the flushed skin, Ilya notices those three under his eye again, strung up in a neat little line. He brushes the tip of his thumb over them, just because he can, just because Hollander lets him. His cheek is hot, radiating warmth that makes Ilya drop his hand and pull off his shirt to cool down a little. 

“I like what I see there,” he continues, now pushing up Hollander’s shirt, and the other boy seems to get the hint, scrambling to pull it off over his head too. The moment it’s off, Ilya has to get his hands on Hollander’s skin, “But I like touching better,” he whispers, fingers running up the other’s arms, tracing his collarbones, trailing down his chest. Hollander gasps when he brushes over his nipples and then down, down, down, one of ILya’s hands on his hips, the other ghosting over the bulge in Hollander’s gym shorts.

“Mmmhh,” the noise he makes is muffled, still biting his lip, and Ilya slides his fingers up again to play with the waistband of his shorts, “You like me touching you?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Hollander breathes out finally, and Ilya dips his fingers below the waistband, gently tracing over the sensitive skin there, “You want this?”

“Please, just touch me,” the shorter boy whimpers and whoa, that definitely does something for Ilya. Hollander is cute when he’s desperate, begging for it, begging for Ilya.

“Because you ask so nice”, Ilya lets his hand wander on down underneath the other’s clothes, finally curling his long fingers around Hollander’s erection. It earns him a beautiful little noise, something between a moan and a sigh of relief, and Ilya can’t help himself. He leans in and captures Hollander’s mouth with his own, he wants to taste the sounds he makes. He’s only dimly aware that pressing their faces together like this actually kind of hurts his bruised nose, but he has much more pleasant things to distract him from that pain right now.

Hollander’s cock is rock hard, hot and leaking precum. He’s thrusting into Ilya’s hand and kissing him back like it’s the only thing in the history of the world that has ever mattered. Ilya is so hard it hurts, but fuck, he has a plan here, he’s on a mission.

He pulls back a little and Hollander chases his lips. Ilya leans their foreheads together and looks at the other boy when he says, “Can I suck your dick?”

Hollander shivers, his whole body vibrating under Ilya’s hand.

“Oh god. Um, yeah, yes. You can. Please,” he looks so good, so eager, so nervous. 

He wanted to practice, that’s what he said, right? Fuck, no one has ever done this to Hollander before, no one else has seen him like this. Ilya would be the first person to do this to him, to make him feel good in that way. This is so wrong, and so fucking hot. 

He pulls back more, guiding Hollander to follow him for the two steps it takes to reach the little sofa in the corner of the room. “Off,” he tugs at Hollander’s shorts and the other scrambles to oblige, toeing off his shoes, pushing his pants down and stepping out of them. Ilya hums, pleased, and Hollander lets himself be pushed down until he’s flat on his back. Ilya crawls over his body and settles between his legs. Hollander looks delicious, spread out under him and eagerly waiting for whatever comes next. 

Ilya leans down and kisses him, on his lips, the corner of his mouth, the hinge of his jaw, just under his ear and down his neck. Hollander is breathing heavily, and he whimpers when Ilya fits his mouth over one of his nipples, gently flicking it with his tongue. He keeps traveling down the other boy’s body, leaving open mouthed kisses in his wake, over his stomach and his hip bone to his thigh. 

He takes a moment to get comfortable between Hollander’s legs, then leans back in and hears the other suck in a breath. He grins and instead of devoting his full attention to Hollander’s cock, he mouths at his inner thigh, grazing the sensitive skin there with his teeth, making the other squirm.

“So wet,” he says then, looking back and forth between Hollander’s face and his dick, where a thick drop of precum is sliding down the shaft.

“Oh shut up,” Hollander says, beet red. 

Usually, Ilya would chirp back some more but right now he’s in no mood to refuse the other’s request, sticking out his tongue to lick up the bead of moisture before sucking Hollander’s length into his mouth. His cock is warm and heavy in Ilya’s mouth, the stretch is unfamiliar. The skin feels nice and silky as he runs his tongue along it. He wraps his hand around the part of the shaft that isn’t currently inside of his mouth and starts moving, slow but steady while Hollander is trembling under him. 

It’s insane how good he looks like this – blushing all the way down to his chest, eyes hooded and dark. All of his attention is on Ilya, so focussed it’s giving the impression that the world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t care so long as Ilya kept doing what he was doing. Hollander’s mouth is open and wet and the noises spilling out of him have Ilya convinced that one or both of them must indeed be losing their mind. 

Ilya thinks Hollander tastes nice – then wonders if that even makes sense. Mostly, it’s just skin, which doesn’t actually taste like anything much at all, it’s more the soft feeling of it, but there’s also the salty taste of precum, and god, Hollander really is so wet with it. 

He pays attention to every little twitch and moan, careful to keep his teeth out of the way, repeating the things Hollander seems to enjoy a few times before trying something new. Some of the things he tries – flicking the tip of his tongue against Hollander’s frenulum before swirling it around the head and sucking – make Hollander’s dick twitch, little ahhh’s and uhn’s falling from his lips. 

Ilya tries to keep the things Sveta told him in mind; move your hand along with your mouth, lots of spit, lots of licking. He tries humming with Hollander’s dick in his mouth, and that seems like to be very well received too. 

He’s working up to a nice, steady pace, switching between all the different little movements of his tongue that Hollander seems to enjoy the most, when the other starts whimpering a little louder.

“Oh fuck, I, Rozanov, I won’t last, I…” 

Oh fuck yes, Ilya hollows his cheek a little more, sucking him in harder, and then Hollander’s hand is twisting in his hair. His nose hurts, but he couldn’t care less right now.

“Roz, ahh, I’m gonna come, you gotta…”

The hair pulling feels good, sending little shivers down his spine, and actually, Hollander, I don’t have to do shit, I’m exactly where I want to be. 

I’m curious.

Hollander comes in his mouth with a loud moan that he tries and fails to muffle with his hand. Ilya feels his dick twitch, warm liquid spilling onto his tongue. He waits a second before he swirls his tongue around Hollander’s oversensitive cock one last time before pulling off, cum still in his mouth. The taste is interesting, kinda like his own because, duh, of course he tried that before, and kinda like Hollander’s precum but muskier somehow. He looks Hollander in the eyes as he swallows. Then smirks. 

It’s clearly doing something for him, judging by the way he licks his own lips and twitches. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, staring at Ilya in awe.

“No,” Ilya agrees, “but I wanted.” He can feel Hollander shiver under him again. 

He moves back up along his body to kiss him again, slower and less frantic than before. The way Hollander leans into it is honestly kind of sweet, happily sighing into Ilya’s mouth, tangling their tongues together. Ilya wonders whether Hollander can taste his own cum on his tongue. If so then he doesn’t seem to mind.

When they break apart Hollander looks up at him, a little less floaty and a lot more determined, seemingly having managed to gather back some of his composure, “My turn now.”

Ilya is reminded of just how painfully hard his own cock is and oh fuck yes. He sits back, making space to let Hollander wiggle out from underneath him, and the other boy slides onto his knees before Ilya. Wow. He’d been thinking about it earlier when Hollander had been on his knees in the gym, tempted to let his little plan go and just fuck his mouth right there. But this is Hollander’s first time, so it probably wouldn’t have been fun for either of them like that. Next time, maybe.

Hollander is a lot less hesitant to get his hands inside Ilya’s pants this time around, and Ilya lifts his hips to make it easier for him to pull his shorts down. His dick smacks against his stomach and Hollander makes a little “oh” sound. He’s so close Ilya can feel his breath on his shaft and it’s getting harder and harder by the second to resist the sudden urge to slap his cock against the freckles on Hollander’s cheeks. 

He watches the other swipe his tongue over his lips before he finally puts a slightly shaky hand around Ilya’s length, holding it in place to lick a careful stripe from the base up to the head. Ilya inhales sharply and it’s clear Hollander enjoys the little noise, taking it as encouragement. His hand is getting a little steadier now, as he lines the head of Ilya’s cock up with his mouth to slowly swipe his tongue over the tip, swirling it around and then pressing it to the slit.

“Yes, Hollander…,” Ilya hisses, watching as Hollander carefully wraps his lips around the head of his cock, his eyes half-lidded and pitch black in the low light, looking up at him. Slowly taking more of his length into his mouth and moving his tongue against the underside of Ilya’s rigid cock. 

It’s clear that Hollander had no previous experience of any kind, giving or receiving head, until like 5 minutes ago, but he’s obviously listened earlier when Ilya told him that his trick is basically just to pay close attention to what his partners do. He’s trying to emulate what Ilya did to him, tentatively starting to bob his head and moving his hand along with it.

“Fuck,” Ilya needs to remember how to breathe. He’s received more than his fair share of blowjobs before this, both from much more skilled and equally inexperienced partners alike, and yet, this is different. 

Hollander is nervous, yes, but he also seems set on seeing this through and succeeding. There is an intensity to the way he moves and a kind of enthusiasm that Ilya wouldn’t have expected from a virgin. Shane Hollander is on his knees with Ilya Rozanov’s cock in his mouth and seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself, looking up at Ilya through his lashes with bedroom eyes and hollowing his cheeks.

“Fuck, посмотри на тебя… ,” he mumbles, brushing his thumb over Hollander’s flushed cheek and the corner of his mouth where it’s stretched wide around the girth of Ilya’s cock. Hollander’s lids flutter briefly and he moans around Ilya.

Fuck, Hollander really is loving this. 

His rhythm is a bit off, drool is running down his chin and Ilya can see how tense his jaw is, but wow. 

“Look at you,” he repeats in English, only to make Hollander shudder and moan around his cock again, the vibration sending sparks up Ilya’s spine. He tangles his fingers in the other boy’s silk dark hair, tugs a little, making Hollander groan, and fuck- fuck, Ilya is so much closer than he wants to be already. He doesn’t want it to be over yet.

“Ah… stop, wait, stop, stop!” Ilya gently nudges Hollander, the other immediately sliding off and looking at him, shocked. 

“S-Sorry,” he swallows and wipes some of the drool from his mouth, “I’m not… I’ve never…”

“Ah, no, was good. Just… too much.”

Hollander seems surprised at that, raising his eyebrows, “Really?”

“It was… no, I don’t have right words… just, a lot,” English is already difficult when he’s not busy getting his dick sucked. ”Come here,” he tugs the other upwards with a hand on the side of his face and pulls him into another kiss. Hollander lets himself be dragged along willingly, opening his mouth for Ilya as he swipes his tongue over his lips. 

They make out for a while. Hollander climbs into Ilya’s lap and threads his fingers through his hair, sighing into the kiss. The weight of him on top of Ilya feels good. He pulls him closer to roll his hips against him, only to find Hollander is hard again. Ilya is so excited by how into it the other is, it borders on giddy and kinda makes him want to be sick. Instead, he slides his hands around to grab Hollander’s ass, holding him in place to grind their erections together. 

“Have you, hah, have you been thinking about this?” Hollander mumbles against his lips.

Ilya hums, pulling back slightly to place a few kisses on the other boy’s neck, “Told you, I am curious,” he responds, lips making their way down to Hollander’s collarbone. He lightly bites the skin there and then sucks, earning a sharp gasp for his efforts, before he leans back and says, “I like trouble.”

Hollander is looking down at him from where he’s perched on Ilya’s lap, biting his lip trying not to giggle, “Well, I think we’ve found it,” he responds. It makes Ilya laugh a little too, his smile crooked and pleased. 

“Did you like sucking my dick?” he asks, intently watching Hollander’s face for his reaction. 

“Oh, those English words you know?” the other asks, still laughing. Insufferable, adorable.

Ilya kisses him to shut him up, but he’s still chuckling himself, so it’s not a very successful attempt at first. Still, he keeps at it, sliding his lips against Hollander’s and sucking the other’s tongue into his mouth until they both manage to calm down a little.

“Did you like it?” Ilya asks again.

“... Yeah.”

“Would you like if I let you do some more?”

“Let me?” Hollander lets out an indignant little gasp as Ilya nibbles on his ear.

“I’m a nice guy,” he grins into Hollander’s neck. 

Hollander doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead lifting his hips and shoving Ilya to the side and down until Ilya is flat on his back with the other hovering over him, their positions from earlier reversed.  

Hollander takes his time looking at him, eyes traveling over his skin. Ilya’s never been one to feel insecure about his looks, but even if he had, the way Hollander is peering down at him would make anyone feel like a god. After a while he starts sliding down Ilya’s body, hands running over his torso like he’s trying to map it out, his breathing is slow and strained and all the attention and the anticipation is starting to make Ilya dizzy. 

Finally, finally, Hollander takes him back into his mouth. His jaw is slacker this time, a little more relaxed, and he’s inching down until Ilya can see his eyes water. “Такой красивый,” he whispers absentmindedly, focussed on how Hollander is trying to blink the moisture away while moving up and down Ilya’s cock. His tongue is swirling around, mouth hot and oh so wet, the movements sound so filthy that that alone would have been enough to make Ilya moan.

Hollander’s own hard cock is pressed against Ilya’s leg and he can feel him twitching. He’s not even sure if Hollander realizes he’s rubbing against him with how intently he seems to be focussed on sucking him off. All the little things that make Ilya sigh and moan and hum, he repeats, good student that he apparently is. 

When he looks up to find Ilya watching him again, Hollander whimpers a little, sucking harder and speeding up his movements. “Fuck… Hollander,” Ilya is so turned on it’s making him feel lightheaded. He can still feel Hollander’s erection poking into his thigh and maybe it shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but well, here they are.

“Ты создан для этого…,” the words come easier in Russian, “Touch yourself.”

Hollander blushes even darker now than before, but he makes a pleased noise and shifts to let his unoccupied hand slip down to his own cock. It only takes him a few tugs before he’s apparently coming again, whimpering with Ilya’s dick still in his mouth, still enthusiastically sucking him off and it’s too much. 

Ilya yanks him off his dick and up, and Hollander makes a confused little noise before he catches on to what is happening. Their mouths crash together and Hollander keeps his other hand on Ilya’s cock, giving him two, three more strokes before he’s spilling all over Hollander’s hand and his own stomach, grunting into the kiss and gently biting at the other’s lip. 

By the time Ilya’s brain reboots, they’re not so much kissing anymore, rather just panting into each other’s mouths, but it takes another few seconds before they part. Hollander is staring down at him, dumbfounded, and as he glances over to the mess on his hand and Ilya’s stomach, there’s definitely some pride in his eyes too.

Ilya slowly starts to sit up, reaching down to the floor where he’d dropped his gym towel earlier. He takes Hollander by the wrist and wipes the cum off his one hand, then the other, before he bothers with the mess on his own skin. Hollander is still staring, lips parted. He looks good like this, fucked out, all messy hair and glassy eyes, spit drying on his chin, freckles standing out against pink cheeks. There’s a soft noise coming from his throat as Ilya cleans his fingers.

“Okay, um. Wow,” Hollander’s voice is hoarse and faint, “That was, uh, I – “ and then a phone starts going off, a terrible ringtone cutting through the quiet room.

“Oh fuck,” the pretty flush drains from Hollander’s cheeks as he starts looking around the sofa, grimacing at the wet spot he left there, and then fishing his phone out from where it apparently landed on the floor between their clothes. 

“My mom is picking me up. I have to take this,” he sounds embarrassed and apologetic and Ilya finds the situation hilarious for some reason. Perfect timing, Coach Hollander. Would’ve been tragic otherwise. He has to clasp his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud as Hollander answers the call, glaring at him.

“Yeah, hi, mom… Yeah, sorry… No, non, ça va bien, tout va bien,” he looks back at the wet spot on the leather sofa, and Ilya throws the towel at him. Hollander scowls but takes it, getting rid of the remaining evidence of their encounter while still on the phone with his mother, “No, I just, uh, just lost track of time… No, yeah, it’s good, we were just… talking… Uh-huh, yeah, yeah I’ll be right out, sorry.”

All the while it gets harder and harder for Ilya to hold back the hysterical laughter that is bubbling up his throat. By the time Hollander hangs up, he’s glaring daggers at Ilya. However, he only manages to keep it up for about a second before a grin breaks out over his face and they both start laughing. 

 “Holy shit, I really did lose track of time, that was… that was risky, damn,” Hollander says with a sigh, after he’s caught his breath again. 

“Yeah, probably,” Ilya agrees, “But was good too, yes?”

Hollander purses his lips but then lets the grin spread over his face again, “Yeah, really good,” he says, and Ilya feels like he just won Olympic gold.

“I better leave now though, before my mom comes looking for me,” they both shudder at the thought and Hollander gets up off the sofa, looking around the floor to find where his clothes and other belongings ended up.

After he’s finished dressing and making an attempt to fix his hair, he turns to Ilya again, who by now has tucked himself back into his gym shorts and is fiddling with his top. “I’ll… I’ll see you around,” Hollander says, blushing again. 

Ilya smirks, “Goodbye, Hollander,” he waves as Hollander ducks out of the door. There’s a last lingering glance, and then he’s gone.

Chapter End Notes

Shane Hollander, my sweet baby angel, you deserve to have people in your corner. Both in the show and in the book, Shane seems really isolated, especially before becoming friends with Hayden. I really wanted to explore that loneliness a bit, as well as the relationship with his mom. I love Yuna later on, but in the beginning she feels so controlling, more manager than mother.

As for the smut, I think under slightly different circumstances this encounter could have been a lot more tense (or intense), but I wanted them to have fun. Doing something for the first time is already scary enough, but they're idiots and they make each other laugh, peak romance imo.
As I mentioned in an earlier chapter, I think a Shane that hasn't had any experiences with girls yet is a lot less intimidated by how easy things are with Ilya, simply because he doesn't know how difficult it will be with others.

In other news, I planned out the story a bit more, so for now I'm estimating it will be a total of 9 chapters (subject to change, of course). I'm already thinking of the downstream consequences of this little "workout" and can't wait to get further into it. If only I was as excited about writing my thesis, my supervisor would be so happy with me.

 

And finally, the hockey of it all! Home team won their last game against a much higher ranked opponent and it was amazing. They had two hat tricks, which seems absolutely insane, but I don't technically know a lot about ice hockey, so maybe it's more common than I think. Now the league is on break for the olympics and I need a different thing to obsess over and yap about, send help.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Sometimes, you don't put in the effort but things end up getting fixed anyways. Temporarily.

Moscow, August 2007

Shane avoids his mother’s gaze as he slides into the passenger seat. She is undeterred however, he’s not even managed to buckle his seat belt before she starts. A flurry of questions, Shane has a hard time keeping up with her.

“What did you do? Did you make sure to warm up properly? What did you talk about? What is the plan for tomorrow’s practice? I’ve seen that Rozanov kid smoke, did he smoke again? If so, you better have kept your distance, secondhand smoke still kills. What took you so long anyways? You didn’t get into another fight, did you? It’s not like you to be late, I told you, 10:30 p.m. sharp. Did you even shower yet?” 

It feels endless. There isn’t even time to answer one question before she moves on to the next. He knows it’s because she cares. He just wishes she’d do it in a more normal way. ‘How did it go, Shane?’ would be a much easier question to answer. He could tell her they did some yoga and then uhh, some endurance training or whatever. Lying is difficult, and ‘just be happy we didn’t kill each other,’ isn’t a joke that would land with his mother.

*****

One thing his mother is right to nag about is that he needs a shower, desperately. 

Shane hadn’t even thought about it but as soon as she’d mentioned it in the car, it felt like his heart stopped. An overwhelming wave of fear had hit him square in the chest, like she somehow figured out what had actually happened with Rozanov, like she could smell it on him. 

He feels gross. Sticky. Terrified. Guilty.

His mother had moved on fast though, not even giving him the opportunity to answer before telling him, yet again, just how important it is that he and Rozanov play nice moving forward. 

“You know this Shane, you’re held to higher standards than others.”

*****

Relief washes over Shane as he steps into the shower, finally alone again and free to process the events of the evening beyond trying to figure out what to say to his mother to cover them up.

Overall, the whole thing with Rozanov… went a lot better than expected. Shane’s cheeks heat again at the thought, but it’s true, isn’t it? He hadn’t been sure what to expect when he walked into the arena earlier this evening, but it ended up being a lot more fun than even the best case scenarios he’d come up with before. Sure, it was still somewhat awkward, and in retrospect he kind of cringes at how forward he was and at some of the things he said, but it definitely could have been worse. 

The only downside is that now his jaw hurts a little. Is that normal? Probably – it’s not like Shane has a lot (or any) experience sucking dick and… oh wow. He’d really put another man’s dick in his mouth, huh? Well, fuck. 

Shane can feel his breathing speed up and get shallower. It’s not weird, is it? People experiment all the time, especially at their age. Perfectly normal, perfectly natural. And Rozanov said it was his first time doing this too, right? Well, clearly not his first time having sex, because no one should have that kind of confidence the first time around, and Shane knows what some of the guys are saying about Rozanov in the locker room. Language barrier or not, some things (or rather, some gestures) don’t need translating. Except, of course, Tóth is usually happy to do exactly that and Lipovsky had made comments just earlier today at lunch when they were talking about girls. 

… Did Shane do well? 

He isn’t really sure, Rozanov definitely had more experience on the receiving end of things. 

Things being blowjobs. 

Oh god. 

He’d said it was good, right? So Shane definitely didn’t completely fuck it up. But what if the other was just being polite? Then again, Rozanov doesn’t seem like the polite type. And he came, so Shane must have done something right at least. 

But was he any good at it, objectively?

Can you even objectively judge the quality of a blowjob? – Seems like a very subjective experience. 

A subjective experience that Rozanov clearly had several times before whereas it was completely new to Shane outside of porn, which he’d only watched a handful of times. (Watching porn feels weird, okay? Like he’s intruding, somehow.)  

How does Shane compare to Rozanov’s other… partners? 

Urgh, that sounded wrong somehow. “Partners” makes him shiver, but he can’t think of another word either, too busy trying not to completely lose it right now. 

4 seconds to inhale, 7 seconds to hold his breath, 8 seconds to slowly exhale.

Everything is okay. Shane is okay. 

This means nothing, remember?

Except… Now he’ll have to see Rozanov like every other day for the next month knowing what his cock feels like inside of Shane’s mouth. And knowing what Rozanov looks like with Shane’s cock in his mouth. Knowing what his tongue feels like when he – 

Is it bad that Shane liked it?

He’s not sure about Rozanov, but the whole thing had definitely been – well, good for Shane. Not that he has anything to compare it to other than his own hand, and that doesn’t seem fair, but still. And more than that, (more concerning than that,) he hadn’t just liked the part where Rozanov got him off. Shane had also enjoyed returning the favor. So much so he got hard again immediately.

How embarrassing. 

… Was it embarrassing?

Rozanov hadn’t seemed to mind, he even… told Shane to touch himself – and Shane did. The thought makes him shudder now. Still, he’s sure he hadn’t imagined the look in Rozanov’s eyes when he said it, he’s pretty sure the other boy had liked that part at least. 

… Just like how Shane apparently had really liked blowing him. 

It was such a surreal experience overall, if it wasn’t for his aching jaw Shane would be convinced he’d dreamed it. It wouldn’t even be the first time he’s had a dream like this in the past month. 

The whole thing makes him want to cry and scream and laugh hysterically. There’s so many thoughts zipping through his head and so many emotions buzzing in his body, none of which he can clearly identify. 

His anxiety feels like it’s trying to shake him inside out. It’s not exactly failing to do so, but surprisingly, Shane feels a lot less scared of potential repercussions than he probably should. He knows it’s fucked up, he knows it’s dangerous, but he is sure that Rozanov won’t tell anyone, and neither will he. There is a weird kind of comfort in that. It’s enough to keep him from spiraling too far down.

Plus, he learned something here, right? That is good. Now Shane knows that sex stuff can be fun and is nowhere near as uncomfortable as he had always thought it would be. The things his teammates would discuss in the locker room, and some of the videos he’d seen online, they all made it seem so… gross, kind of. Shane had been really nervous about that, about getting to it and then being too freaked out, or not being able to get it up – turns out, that hadn’t been an issue.

If anything, this experience will definitely come in handy for when you, you know, have to do it for real at some point.

… But is this enough experience? 

Shane is absolutely certain that, despite feeling a little more confident about sex now, he is miles and miles away from Rozanov’s level of cool calm self-assuredness. So, if he’s going to have to keep seeing him for the next month either way… 

Hmm. 

How limited is this ‘limited time offer’ Rozanov had made? Limited to once? Or limited to the time Shane is in Moscow?

Should Shane ask him tomorrow?

… Oh god, they have practice tomorrow. They hadn’t even attempted to talk about their on-ice issues and now Shane will have to see him again, knowing all these little details he’d learned about Rozanov earlier tonight. 

Shane gets out of the shower because the skin on his fingers tells him he’s been lost in thought for way too long and staying in there won’t solve anything (unfortunately).

He wraps himself in a towel, then he wipes the condensation off the mirror. There’s an angry red hickey staring back at him from where it sits on his left collarbone. 

Shane’s stomach flips. Not entirely in a bad way.

Fuck.

*****

The next day, Shane is glad he’s early for practice. 

The locker room is still empty and he changes into his compression shirt in record time, not wanting to risk anyone seeing the hickey. He had considered changing at home already, but it’s too warm outside, and his mother would definitely have had questions. It’s not like it’s super obvious that the bruise comes from someone sucking on his skin. It could’ve been from bumping into something, or a stray puck, or a million other things. Hell, even if someone were to figure out that this bruise had been left there by another person’s mouth, it’s not like Shane is mandated to tell them the full government name of the perpetrator. Still, better not to risk it.

With that out of the way, there are plenty of other things for him to worry about. 

Sitting on the sidelines during practice still sucks. If Shane had stayed in Ottawa for the summer, he probably would have barely gotten any ice time at all, but it’s different when it’s right in front of him. And it’s not like he’s completely banned from skating either, but having to specifically sit out team practice because he couldn’t keep his shit together is a wholly different beast. He’s ashamed, having landed himself in the penalty box and embarrassing his mother in front of her colleagues. 

His self-control really needs some work. 

Speaking of which, Rozanov just appeared on the ice and is looking at him. Oh shit. Shane has no idea how to act around him after last night. 

Not that he really had any idea before either, which is why he’s on this damn bench in the first place. 

Rozanov is skating in Shane’s direction, and he can feel the panic bubbling up in his stomach, churning more and more the closer the other gets. By the time Rozanov comes to a stop by the boards right in front of Shane, he’s about ready to vomit from how tense he suddenly feels. He’d been pretty okay all day so far, the sudden anxiety is giving him whiplash. 

When Shane finally dares to look up at the other boy, after trying and failing to calm down for a few breaths, Rozanov doesn’t seem like he’s here to antagonize him. On the contrary, he’s smiling. It’s not even that shark-like grin he puts on when he’s about to check Shane or steal the puck from him – no, it’s just… friendly, relaxed. 

Somehow that does nothing to calm Shane’s racing thoughts and the nausea. It’s like there is a tension between them that somehow only seems to affect Shane. He’s grasping at straws, trying to think of what to say to Rozanov, but all his mind does is scream at him. 

Rozanov puts him out of his misery with a simple, “Hello Hollander,” before he jumps over the boards and sits down. 

On the same bench as Shane! 

In the same penalty box!! 

Less than a meter away from him!!!

It freaks Shane out in a wholly different way, but has the pleasant side effect of temporarily overriding his other anxieties. Rozanov is clearly not here to start anything or say something about last night. So this might be… a sign? A peace offering?

(Does it mean that Shane did well last night?)

Shane tries once more to find something, anything, to say in hopes of alleviating the remaining tension, but the only thing he can come up with is ‘Haha hey, you sucked my dick last night and it was probably the best orgasm I ever had. But like, don’t read anything into it. Clearly, I’m not reading into it either. And uh, are we cool? Will we manage?’ – Yeah, he can’t exactly say that, especially not here.

Especially not with his mother coming out of the tunnel and looking at them.

She raises an eyebrow at first, but then gives him a tight little smile. 

“Is good look,” Rozanov says from beside Shane, “Sitting together. Like we are friendly, yes?”

“Uhh… yeah, good thinking,” Shane replies while wondering whether ‘like we are friendly‘ meant that they weren’t actually friendly despite what happened between them, or whether it was just due to Rozanov’s struggles with the English language. 

Actually, did Shane want to be friendly with Rozanov?

He spends the entire duration of team practice thinking about it, trying to keep his eyes from wandering to his right to steal glances at Rozanov. And then he keeps pondering even when all the other guys and the coaches have gone and it’s just the two of them on the ice. 

Only when they decide to do some passing drills does Shane manage to focus. It’s a lot better than any of the other attempts at team work they’ve had during the regular practices so far, although it’s clear that they’re both still somewhat apprehensive. 

“Come on, Hollander! Grandmother skates faster than you! Blind man has better aim! Mama will be so disappointed in your backhand!” Rozanov keeps chirping at him throughout the whole hour they have on the ice.

Shane’s responses mostly don’t range beyond “Go fuck yourself,” and he quietly decides that, while they can definitely work together when forced to, he actually has no desire to be friendly towards the other boy. Rozanov is an asshole who just so happens to give good head, doesn’t mean that Shane suddenly wants to be his friend. 

At one point, Rozanov chooses to respond to the go fuck yourself’s by skating up real close to Shane and whispering “You say this because you want to watch, yes?” causing Shane to almost stumble and blush tomato red, while Rozanov steals the puck from him and skates off, cackling. 

Not friendly. 

What an asshole. 

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

Ilya lives for the weekends. They’re usually filled with hockey games and parties. During the summer break, the empty space left by the lack of competitions is filled up with more partying. 

Friday night finds him preparing to go exactly where he belongs. Ilya is at Sveta’s house, waiting for her to get ready so that they can finally leave to go out and get drunk. 

Things are taking a bit longer than usual though, because on top of trying on her entire wardrobe in order to find the perfect outfit, she’s dead set on interrogating him about it. They haven’t seen each other since Ilya left her place on Wednesday to go meet Hollander at the arena, so he supposes it’s only natural she’s curious about what ended up happening. However, he’s a little uncertain about how much he should tell her. 

“Really, Ilyusha, you’re not going to say anything?” she whines, pouting at his reflection in the mirror behind where she’s currently trying on a scandalously short dress. “After all the work I put in for you?”

Ilya sighs, and she turns around to face him then, a mock frown on her face, “The keys? The make-up? The very helpful advice I gave you?”

She’s got him there, kind of. Sveta is hard to resist in more ways than one, and without her nicking her father’s keys on his behalf, things may have gone a lot less smoothly. 

“Alright, alright. If you ask, I will answer,” Ilya concedes. It’s a solid middle ground, he’d like to think. She’ll get what she wants and he has the option to weigh his responses, making sure not to say more than he really wants to.

“You are so odd, Ilyusha. You’re not usually this protective of the sordid details of your sex life,” Sveta grins, turning back to the mirror to change out of the dress and try on a skirt instead.

“Okay then! Things did happen, right? You wouldn’t be so cagey if all you ended up doing was lift weights together. So in that case, was I a good teacher? Were you good at it?”

There’s a very clear mental image of Hollander, flushed and moaning, flashing through Ilya’s mind. The way he held onto Ilya, the dark, half-lidded eyes, the face he made when he came down Ilya’s throat. 

Ilya can’t help the self-satisfied smirk that creeps across his face as he simply answers, “Yes.”

Sveta seems pleased with that answer, a lascivious smile tugging at her lips. 

“Was he any good?”

That question is a little more difficult to answer, Ilya finds. Not because he was unsure of how he felt about it, but more so because he needed to find a way to word it that would satisfy Sveta. The thought of Hollander’s soft lips stretched around his cock, moaning, comes to mind. 

“He was good. Different, no experience, but good,” Ilya ponders out loud, before adding “Nowhere near your level though, of course.”

“Of course,” she laughs. Ilya’s known Sveta forever, he knows how to stroke her ego. It’s not always necessary, but they’re on outfit number 9 by now, and that seems like a solid indicator that tonight a little flattery definitely wouldn’t hurt. Sveta’s never been the insecure type, but even the most beautiful people have their off days at times.

“Sasha will be so jealous.”

There’s an unpleasant shiver running down Ilya’s spine at the thought. Sasha is his friend, kind of, at least, but it’s also not like Ilya really cares about whether or not he would be jealous. It’s more that Sasha can be a little unpredictable. It’s part of what makes him so hot, if Ilya’s being honest, but sometimes the ways in which he lashes out are… 

“Don’t tell him. At least not about Hollander, okay?”

At that, Sveta turns from where she was picking out a necklace to go with outfit #9, eyebrows raised. 

“Wow Ilya, all it takes is one dick in your mouth and suddenly you’re turning into a gentleman.”

“Sveta… ,” Ilya’s lips are pressed together tightly. 

Sveta sighs and rolls her eyes a little, but then she schools her expression, and he can see the understanding in her eyes. “Okay, yeah, fair. I get it. Come here, help me with this,” she waves him over and hands him the necklace.

She turns to face away from Ilya and lifts her hair out of the way. “I’m sorry. I know Sasha can be… a bit much,” she mumbles as Ilya drapes the thing chain around her neck. 

“I don’t want him to make trouble for you, for either of you. I think he doesn’t realize sometimes how much easier it is for him, always off with his mother, he’s probably fucked his way through half of France by now. But you are here, and Hollander is here for now. And hockey is… well. Like Russia, in a way.”

Ilya fastens the clasp with a small grateful smile that Sveta can’t see. She’s softer today, and he’s thankful for that, placing a kiss on her shoulder to convey the feeling instead. With all the things going on in his life right now, he doesn’t have the space to deal with Sasha throwing a fit. 

“Are you almost ready?” Ilya asks her then, placing his hands on Sveta’s shoulders to turn her back around towards him, “Kirill and Kolya should be here in 15 minutes or so.”

“Almost,” she grins, reaching for her makeup bag, the somber mood dissipating into thin air. 

*****

The taxi takes Ilya and his friends to an upscale building in the center of the city. The party is hosted by one of the younger guys on the CSKA superleague team, the top floor apartment filled to the brim with hockey players and beautiful women. 

Several heads turn as their group enters, and quite a few people flock to greet them, the host, a defenseman named Dmitri Yelgin, included. He kisses Sveta’s cheeks and tells her how pleased he is that she could make it. Ilya wants to cringe at this man in his early twenties, almost falling over himself to flirt with a 16 year old girl, but manages to keep it together. Sveta knows how these things go and knows how to handle herself, and it’s not like Ilya hasn’t gone home with women outside his own age group several times before. 

Yelgin keeps talking to Sveta, telling her all about his fancy place, while leading them to the kitchen. There’s bottles over bottles lining his counters, all top shelf, and he tells them to go ahead, have whatever they like. 

Someone hands Ilya a glass before he can even go and pour one for himself. Next to him, Sveta turns to Yelgin and says, “I’ll have a martini, if you don’t mind.” It makes Ilya crack a smile, he knows that tone. It’s a tone that indicates she’ll make the guy work for it all night. 

It’s a good night. The music is just right and the view from the balcony is stunning when Ilya goes out to have a smoke with Kolya. They joke around and dance and there’s pretty girls trying to get Ilya’s attention left and right. 

Several hours in, Ilya agrees to a girl’s offer to take him home with her. She’s stunning, all angles, dark eyes and long lashes. Kolya has disappeared a while ago, Kirill is on the couch with Sveta, who is holding court next to Yelgin with a group of people hanging on her lips. He catches her eyes as he makes his way to the door. 

Their silent communication works the same way it always does. A subtle twitch of his brows, are you going to be okay? Answered with a small, private smile and this time, a little nod towards Kirill. I’ll be good, and I still have backup if I need it.

The girl pays for the taxi, the ride is short and she slides her hands up his thighs while they wait to get to their destination. She’s all over him as soon as the apartment door closes behind them, her hands in Ilya’s pants and his lifting up her skirt. 

It’s a good time, she’s not shy at all, moaning loudly as Ilya fucks her on the kitchen table. 

Afterwards, she offers him one of her cigarettes and they sit at the table, smoking, while she tells Ilya a story he’ll forget the second he leaves. He’s barely listening as is, thoughts drifting back to Sveta at the party, and then briefly wondering what Hollander might be up to on a lovely night like this. 

Why the hell is he thinking about Hollander now?

“Do you want to see the bedroom?” the girl asks, and Ilya agrees a little too fast, a little less cool than he’d like to appear. 

All attempts to control his wandering thoughts end up failing. Ilya blames the alcohol. The girl is on top of him and he’s somehow barely present.

Instead, he thinks about Hollander.

About whether he’d let Ilya take him apart like this.

It’s disorienting.

They share another cigarette after, there’s an ashtray on her bedside table, full of cigarette butts and now, a tied off condom. Disgusting. She asks if Ilya wants to stay the night and he doesn’t even consider it before declining.

As he leaves, he tries to remember her name. Marta? Masha? Something with an M, but it doesn’t matter, they won’t see each other again. He pulls out his phone to send a text, which is answered by the time he’s out of the building. 

Me: Everything alright?

Sveta <3: All good, just got home

Sveta <3: Want to come over?

Me: Yes

Definitely beats going home.

*****

When Ilya says he loves weekends. Just not Sunday nights. – Weekends are fun. Sunday nights are torture.

Everyone is home on Sunday nights, meaning that Ilya is also expected to be there. The colonel insists on having family dinners on Sunday nights. Polina is a mediocre cook at best, and Andrei’s current girlfriend isn’t much help either. 

The table is set properly. The cutlery is perfectly aligned.

It goes the way it always does.

His father complains about new policies in his department. About weakness. About young men who expect rewards without earning them. Andrei agrees loudly, chewing with his mouth open. Polina just nods, refills wine glasses at the right moments, drops the occasional sharp comment. Andrei’s girlfriend keeps staring at Ilya in a way that makes him want to roll his eyes so far back in his head, they get stuck.

Ilya just eats.

Eventually, the attention shifts. Sooner or later, it always does.

The colonel sets his glass down, “And you?” Ilya can feel his father’s pale eyes are boring through his skull.

He keeps looking down at his plate, “The team did well this week.”

A humorless sound leaves his father’s throat, “Did they?”

Andrei almost laughs as he adds, “I bet they did – while you are watching from the penalty box.”

Polina sighs, “This whole incident was humiliating.”

Humiliating. 

“You are lazy,” his father says, not raising his voice. “No work ethic and too much attitude. Discipline is what builds careers.”

“I doubt any of the superleague teams want you, the way you’re acting,” Andrei smirks.

“I will speak to Kharlamov tomorrow,” the colonel continues. Calm. Controlled. “What he tells me had better be stellar. If I hear that you lack discipline again, we will reconsider this arrangement.”

This arrangement.

“Yes, sir.” Ilya doesn’t look at him again that night.

Dinner continues. It is always the same.

He will get out. One way or another.

He will make sure Kharlamov has nothing bad to say about him tomorrow night. He has to.

After dinner, Ilya excuses himself to go on a run. He doesn’t want to be lazy, after all. The route he picks is too long. He runs too far. Too fast. And then he keeps going still, until his lungs burn, his legs give out, and he throws up Polina’s shitty cooking. 

*****

Ilya is at the ice palace ready to go, hours before team practice starts. He’s been wound tight all day, buzzing with nervous energy. He can’t afford to fuck things up. Ilya doesn’t know if Kharlamov really was serious when he threatened to kick him off the team, but he has no intentions to find out. Ice hockey is the only way for him to leave. All other alternatives lead to him staying, trapped for the rest of his life. Staying makes Ilya think of his mother, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of the crucifix on his necklace. 

It feels like half an eternity before Hollander shows up, although the clock on the wall tells Ilya it’s still almost two hours before team practice is set to start.

Hollander greets him with a “Hi,” and Ilya can hear the tension in his voice. His face is composed, that perfectly neutral mask that Ilya loathes, but a single syllable from his lips tells him all he needs to know. Hollander can feel the pressure to perform too. Still, the knowledge that they have a common goal does nothing to calm Ilya’s nerves. 

“Do not fuck up,” Ilya says, voice tight, facing the floor as Hollander pulls on his knee pads next to him. 

There’s a sound of indignation coming from Hollander’s direction, something between a grunt and a snort, expressing annoyance. “I have no intention of repeating previous mistakes,” Hollander hisses. Ilya briefly wonders whether that includes any potential off-ice mistakes, but he manages to squash the thought before it can distract him any further.

“I hope you don’t either.”

Ilya looks at him then. Hollander is dressed and ready to go, a slight twitch to his brow, a little crack in the mask. Something about that lifts a little of the weight off Ilya’s shoulders. 

Once on the ice, they decide to go 1v1 in the hopes of relieving some of the tension between them before Kharlamov and the other coaches have their eyes on them. It’s not a total success – still, the mood shifts. 

Fighting Hollander like this, ice under his skates, stick in hand, chasing the puck – it feels good. The exhilaration of competing with someone on his level is slowly creeping in again. The acid roiling in Ilya’s stomach dissolves into something sharper. Lighter. Almost exhilarating. 

With every slide of blades on ice, things between them feel less and less volatile. However, Ilya being Ilya, he can’t help but give in to the impulse to test just how fragile this little armistice of theirs is. The first chance he gets, he slams Hollander into the boards, and Hollander…

Hollander cracks. In an unexpected way. 

Just for a moment, the mask is off and there is a smile on his face as he shoves back against Ilya with a delighted little “Fuck you”. 

It feels like that first practice together. Otherworldly. Euphoric. The conviction that things will go well later tonight mixes with the looming feeling that Ilya is still somehow in trouble – just in a different way than he’d thought.

*****

Ilya and Hollander are sitting on the player’s bench instead of in the penalty box by the end of practice, facing their coaches. “Надеюсь, ты усвоил урок,” Kharlamov mumbles and Ilya knows he’s safe then, the last bit of tension he’d still held onto seeps out of him. 

Kharlamov clears his throat before he continues, “Okay, not bad today. You two will go to camp, I will keep eyes on you.” He turns to Ilya once more before he leaves, “Это твой последний шанс, Розанов.” 

Ilya only has a moment to enjoy the relief that floods him before the words fully register. Next to him, Hollander is looking at him with wide eyes.

You two will go to camp.

*****

The realization that Ilya will be around Hollander almost 24/7 for two weeks feels like a slap to the face. He knew it was upcoming, but somehow it slipped Ilya’s conscious mind. He wonders whether the fragile peace they’ve established will survive. 

But more than that, it makes him think back to what Sveta had said to him on Saturday. 

They hadn’t talked much after he arrived at her house with the sun starting to creep over the horizon. Sveta just insisted on him taking a shower before crawling into bed with her. By the time he was out of the bathroom again, Sveta was asleep, and Ilya curled up on his usual side of the bed. 

When they woke up sometime in the early afternoon, Sveta told him of her night. Yelgin had not gotten lucky, despite his best efforts. Sveta on the other hand had encountered a really charming (and slightly more age-appropriate) guy who declared he’d gladly walk a hundred kilometers over broken glass with a blindfold on just to eat her out in the bathroom. Kirill had stuck around until she was in the taxi later before going back to the party to do whatever Kirill does. 

In turn, Ilya told her about Marta, or Masha, or maybe Milena; her acrylic nails, the sex and the disgusting ashtray next to her bed. He was a lot more inclined to share explicit details this time around, which Sveta pointed out (of course). 

But besides that, it seemed that Saturday afternoon it was Ilya’s turn to feel a little softer than usual. That’s probably why he ended up mentioning the way his mind had drifted to Hollander during his encounter. He almost regretted saying it out loud, feeling strangely vulnerable. 

“What’s the harm in having a little more fun while the opportunity presents itself?” Sveta had said, and leaned her head on his shoulder. 

Chapter End Notes

I love these two idiots but they're horrible at communication, or even just at dealing with their own feelings. Very relatable, at least when looking back at my own teenage years.

In other news, I noticed I kind of fucked up some things with the timeline in the last chapter, so uhh... if you saw that, oops. I'm kind of playing with the thought of making some very major edits to previous chapters, but where does one draw the line? What's the point at which it would be better to just post it as a whole new work?
Either way, it's not gonna happen anytime soon, because I'm set on finishing this first. Summer camp is peak nostalgia for me, but I think it might be a little different for Shane and Ilya.

Also! A huge thank you to everyone reading this, and especially to the people who commented. It's incredibly encouraging and rewarding, any notification I get makes me kick my feet with joy.

 

No real sports segment this time unfortunately, life got in the way this past week, but I'm hoping to catch at least some of the matches from the Olympics.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

The summer camp nostalgia is hitting me especially hard because it's been cold as fuck these past few days.

Moscow, August 2007

His mother has been staring at him for several minutes now at least, while Shane is drinking his smoothie. It’s earlier than usual, his dad left for work just a few minutes ago. The look she’s giving him is the same one she’s been giving him all week and he doesn’t really know how to interpret it. 

“I’m expecting you to keep up the good behavior,” she finally breaks the silence, “Rozanov too, but you especially, Shane.”

Shane really wishes he knew how to do things right, how to make his mother happy. It’s not that he thinks she is necessarily unhappy, or no longer proud of him; she has reassured him and he believes her, but it is clear that she is still disappointed. That felt hurtful, especially since Shane has been on his very best behavior for the past week. Not just when it comes to Rozanov, but with the whole team. He hadn’t taken a single step out of line.

However, Yuna Hollander seems to have higher expectations. Shane loves that she supports him so enthusiastically, always pushing him to do his best, always cheering him on. But lately it feels like his best isn’t enough, like the goalpost keeps being moved. 

“I think you’ll like the training camp. The facilities are great from what I’ve heard and the program is intense, right up your alley. And like I said, in the second week there will be some expo games with other junior clubs; a friendly pre-season tournament. I spoke to Kharlamov and, provided that you keep up the good work,” – a pointed look – “He’s willing to put you on the roster for at least some of those matches.” 

It’s not news to Shane, this has been the plan ever since before he started training with the CSKA junior team, but clearly his confrontation with Rozanov had temporarily shaken the plan up. He just nods to let her know he is listening. 

Yuna gets up then, beginning to clear her plate and Shane’s glass, now empty. “I really want you to have this opportunity, honey. I know that several of the players that are going to be present at the expo are projected to join Russia’s junior championship team next winter. – Do you have your bags packed?”

*****

The team bus is crowded with a bunch of teenage boys and staff members, and Shane remembers why, back home, he has always kind of dreaded away games. It’s loud, incredibly loud, and even though they’ve only been on the bus for around 30 minutes, it’s stuffy. Like there’s too little oxygen and too much sweat in the air.

Shane is sitting in an aisle seat in the back half of the bus, with Radoslav looking out of the window next to him, pointing out interesting landmarks every once in a while as they get further away from Moscow. He seems sleepy, yawning while explaining something about the architecture of a building Shane hadn’t paid enough attention to. It’s not even that early anymore, but across the aisle Volkin is leaning against the window, headphones on and walkman in hand, eyes closed. Fedorov, one of the other two goalies, is slumped over next to him, snoring quietly. Shane has no idea how he manages to sleep through the noise, or how he’s not suffocating himself in the weird position he’s in.  

Beyond that, Shane is acutely aware of Rozanov’s rough voice. The other boy is sitting a few meters behind him in the very back of the bus, flanked by Lipovsky and Galkin as per usual. He’d given Shane this strange look earlier as he walked past him and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Blue eyes, cold and inviting simultaneously. The bridge of Rozanov’s nose is still slightly bruised and it is unfair how good it looks on him. The strange, prickly feeling hasn’t gone away since and Shane wonders whether, if he were to turn around, Rozanov would still be looking at him. 

He doesn’t dare to check though and instead he decides to properly participate in the (so far fairly one-sided) conversation with Radoslav, asking him about the river they’re currently crossing. Unfortunately, it turns out not to be a really boring river. Fortunately, Radoslav is happy to keep the conversation going, switching the topic to tell Shane about their destination instead. 

“It’s just outside of St. Petersburg. Not sure what it’s like in Canada, but they built this huge compound here. Multiple rinks, gyms, dormitories, the works. There’s usually at least one other team around, but this is the third year I’m going there and to be honest, I’ve barely ever seen any of the other players there before the expo matches. And those take place at another location anyways, smaller but also a lot nicer and…” 

Shane doesn’t mean to zone out yet again, but he gets a little lost in trying to picture it, and then he gets a little anxious about dealing with it all. The way Radoslav describes the whole training camp experience, there seems to be barely any privacy, at least for the one and a half weeks they’d spend at the training facility before the expo. It shouldn’t feel different from usual, Shane’s been to his fair share of training camps – but this time it does. 

He’s nervous about how he will handle the overstimulating environment, but also about how his presence – and his mother’s – will affect the experience of the other guys on the team. Apparently, the coaches are extra strict during the day and then at night they are barely around, leaving the boys to get up to mischief. Shane can’t picture Yuna being okay with that. 

The thought sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine. His mother has always been strict. Not just with him, but as a coach in general. Shane has witnessed it countless times before, the way her firm deadlines and inflexible curfews tend to bring down team morale. From his peewee league to the olympics, or even just at the school field trip she’d supervised last year.

It makes him anxious, because just as his mother insists that his behavior reflects on her, Shane knows from experience that her behavior also reflects on him. For all of Yuna’s insistence to try and fit in socially, she’s always ended up making him stand out. He knows that his mother herself has struggled, privately and professionally, as a player and now as a coach, with discrimination and racism. He also knows she wants better for him, but it seems that she often forgets there are other aspects in hockey and life in general that could cause issues for Shane;

Such as his mother fucking up the whole teams’s summer camp experience. 

If he is honest with himself, Shane hadn’t cared too much about it previously. In the past he’d just always shrugged his shoulders, ignored the nasty looks he got when another boy on the team got reprimanded for whatever unbecoming behavior he had displayed, and moved on. This time, Shane doesn’t want to be put in that situation, he doesn’t want (even more) nasty looks, he doesn’t want to be left out. 

And isn’t that a strange thought? For Shane, at least. Back home, he was fine with just kind of getting along with the other boys on his team and leaving them to their own devices outside of hockey, as long as they played well together. 

He looks at Radoslav, and then at Volkin and Fedorov, who are back among the conscious and joined the conversation a few minutes ago. He doesn’t look at Rozanov and his friends, but Shane can’t deny he’s thinking about them too. 

For the first time, Shane wants his teammates to like him. He wants to spend time with them outside of training, he wants to see the cafe that Fedorov mentions and eat the sandwiches there, and he even wants to go to the little bar that Volkin says plays the best post-soviet synth punk you’ve ever heard. As far as Shane knows, he’s never heard post-soviet synth punk before, and while he doesn’t feel like that listening experience is what is missing from his life, he desperately wants to go there and have it anyways. 

(Would Rozanov go there? Does Rozanov like post-soviet synth punk?)

Shane tries his hardest to tune back into the conversation that his friends (?) are having. Volkin’s hands are flying through the air, the way they’re prone to do when the boy is excited, as he tries to explain why the team should change their goal song for the expo games. Shane knows none of the alternatives he suggests, but laughs out loud when Volkin tries to sing a few of them. 

The rest of the trip is much the same; hours upon hours spent crammed into the uncomfortable bus seats. When they stop for lunch and Shane gets to stretch his legs a little, he swears he can hear his knee joints creak – he’s too young for this shit.

*****

St. Petersburg, August 2007

The bus arrives at the training facility just outside of St. Petersburg roughly around dinner time. Shane would love to look around, but before he can even grab his luggage he and the other guys get herded into the narrow building they stopped in front of. 

The canteen they find themselves in is small compared to the overall massive size of the place, at least from what Shane had seen out of the bus windows so far. The tables are too large, to the detriment of the spaces between them. He sits around a table with Radoslav, Fedorov and Volkin, while the coaches stand near the doors at the front of the room. 

After an excessive amount of shuffling, it seems as though everyone is seated, and Kharlamov shouts for them to quiet down. At least it’s what Shane assumes that is what he says, because even though he’s been trying to learn a few words here and there, he still has a long way to go before he can hope to understand any Russian. Either way, the others quiet down and Shane instantly feels the relief. He’s been trying to ignore the pressure on his temples all day, and now it finally lessens. 

“Слушайте внимательно!” Kharlamov yells at them and next to Shane, Radoslav translates quietly, “Listen up!”

Yuna Hollander is standing to Kharlamov’s left and clears her throat loudly. It makes Shane want to sink into the ugly tiled floor. 

The head coach doesn’t even look at his mother, but continues in English, “After dinner, you get suitcases and go to rooms. Upstairs, this building. Is five or six of you per room, and I already made list, no changes. Eat, then find me,” he nods at the empty table nearby, where Shane assumes the coaches and other staff will be sitting. 

“Zhukov will give program for camp this week. Tomorrow at 9, I will see all of you in the gym,” his tone indicates that this is a command, a fact, “Then ice time on rink three. With program is also map of compound. Do not go outside of assigned zone unless I tell you. Staff is staying in building next door. You can be in… recreation room after food. In bed by 11, no excuses – and no guests.” Kharlamov raises an eyebrow at the last part, and there’s some groaning around him. He seems satisfied with his speech, and Shane is sure it’s the most he’s ever heard the coach speak in English. 

After Kharlamov sits down, the noise slowly starts to pick up again. A few of the boys are shuffling towards the corner of the room, where a buffet table has been set up. Yet another reason for Shane to dread the two weeks of camp a little more. He hates buffets. Every time, without fail, he will feel awkward picking out things to put on his plate, usually he ends up undereating because he feels awkward going there multiple times, and everything about it makes Shane feel like he’s under observation by everyone around him. Great. 

Still, he makes it through the dinner, trying to avoid foods that he deems to be too carb-heavy or too fatty as best he can. He looks to the coaches’ table, where his mother is deep in conversation with coach Vlascenko, not looking in his direction. A small mercy.

He’s done eating before the other boys, mostly because he starts feeling awkward and less so because he’s satisfied. Shane waits for them to finish because he’d rather just sleep on the canteen floor than be the first one to approach Kharlamov, all by himself. 

It turns out that Volkin can eat ungodly amounts when given free reign, so by the time they put their dishes away on little trays provided for them, most of the others have already left to grab their luggage and go to the dorm rooms. They neatly line up in front of where Kharlamov is leaning back in his chair, sipping on a drink. The other three boys go before him, which turns out to be a big miscalculation on Shane’s part. By the time he reaches the front of the line Kharlamov looks up at him and, with a strange glint in his eyes, says “Ah! Hollander! Rozanov!”

Shane hopes it’s not too obvious that he freezes up in surprise for a moment, while Rozanov just says “Coach,” over his shoulder. Is he imagining it  or is Rozanov standing way too close to Shane?

“My favorite dynamic duo,” the head coach mocks, “You both are in room 5, top floor. New best friends, yes? Told you I will keep eyes on you, best get along.” Shane is pretty sure the look on Coach Kharlamov’s face is one of evil self-satisfaction, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. (Oh god, please don’t actually let him know exactly what happened.)

Rozanov steps even further into Shane’s personal space and slings an arm around his shoulder. The expression on his face seems very serious, but there is laughter in his voice when he answers, “Of course, coach. Hollander and I will be on best behavior.”

The urge to roll his eyes is strong, but Shane manages to resist it, instead just saying “Yeah,” through clenched teeth. 

Kharlamov snatches a little stack of papers out of Zhukov’s hands, splits it and hands one to each of them. “Map and program.” Then the coach hesitates for a moment before he adds, “Девушкам вход воспрещен, понятно?” with a sharp tone. 

Rozanov nods and Kharlamov waves them off. 

They’re silent as they leave the canteen to get their stuff from the bus. By the time Shane has his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, curiosity is once again getting the better of him and he can’t help but ask, “What did Kharlamov say to you? At the end there, I mean?”

Rozanov, dragging out his own bag from the luggage compartment under the bus, grins. “He said not to bring girls into room again.” It’s clear that he takes pride in getting called out like this, and Shane’s stomach turns just a little.

“I’ve not seen any girls around, though?”

“Last year, figure skaters had camp at same time, in other zone.”

“Ah,” his stomach tilts further at that. Shane hopes that this year there won’t be any figure skating girls around, and he has absolutely no desire to examine the reasoning behind this wish more closely. 

Turns out, it’s easy to avoid introspection when Ilya Rozanov looks at you like that. The hairs on the back of Shane’s neck are standing up again. Once again, he’s too close. Breathing feels a little more difficult all of a sudden. Rozanov looks him up and down, slowly, and it feels like there’s an electric current crawling over Shane’s skin. 

“Maybe this year I take you to bed with me instead,” Rozanov says, quietly, with that damn crooked smile on his lips again.

Shane’s brain has to reboot at that, the knots in his stomach melt into heat, traveling down his body. He takes way too long to come up with a response. Rozanov just keeps smirking at him, until after a while Shane manages to say, “With four other guys in the room, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

(Really? That is your concern here?)

Of course, his reply just makes Rozanov’s smile stretch further across his face. “Everything we do is bad idea, but you do not say no.”

Fuck, he’s got Shane there.

Shane knows he really should tell Rozanov to fuck off. Firmly tell the other boy that this is dumb and dangerous and that he has no desire to engage in any other… shenanigans with him. He should tell him ‘no’, straight forward, no non-sense. 

Except lying is hard and Shane’s self control clearly needs more work still. He can’t come up with a good half-truth to hide behind on the spot, it’s difficult to think, with how he can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, distractingly loud. 

“It’s still dumb. There’s too many people around, like, all the time. Zero privacy. I’m sure the others would notice if both of us just went and disappeared together.” 

Shane should say no. He really, really should. It’s just that, unfortunately, the little mental lockbox he’s tried to cram his memories of being alone with Rozanov into is wide open and see-through. 

Rozanov shrugs, “Coach said to make teamwork better, yes? This can be part of that.”

Shane huffs out a laugh at that, he doubts this kind of team building exercise would help with improving their capabilities to work together. The past week, after… their workout… had been fine, but it was clear the tension was building up again, nothing was really solved. 

Still, Shane can see all the gaps; it feels like between all his stolen moments with Rozanov there are bits and pieces missing. Things they didn’t do, things Shane wants to do again. (For the experience, of course!) So instead of no, what comes out of his mouth is, “I don’t think there’s any place around here that we wouldn’t get caught immediately.” 

(I can’t just climb into your bed the way those girls apparently did.)

If Shane were trying to discourage Rozanov, that would have been the wrong thing to say. However, he’s all but given up on that pretense by now. The other boy seems confident, and maybe a little pleased, when he responds, “Then I will find private place. Easy.”

It feels like Shane just made a deal with the devil, in a way. He doesn’t say anything else and both of them head back into the building as a few other boys exit the building to grab their stuff. Shane follows Rozanov up three flights of narrow stairs and through an open door to where dorm room #5 awaits them.

There are three bunk beds in a neat row, the first two sets have already been claimed it seems, leaving Shane to share the last bunk bed in the corner with Rozanov. (... Does this count as climbing into bed together? Huh.)

“You go on bottom, I will be top.” 

Shane kind of wants to punch that stupid, sexy smirk off of Rozanov’s face.

******************************

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

Ilya wakes up to the noise of people shuffling around the room. The air is stuffy, the clock above the doorway tells him it’s a few minutes past seven. Plenty of time to get dressed and have breakfast before heading to the gym. He doesn’t like staying in bed for too long when he’s back home, usually that’s a luxury reserved for nights he sleeps over at Sveta’s, but there is no one here he wants to get away from, so he stays lying down for a few more minutes. 

By the time Ilya finally slides down off his mattress, Hollander’s bed underneath his is empty and neatly made up. If he were to guess, it’s probably been empty for quite a while already. Hollander seems like a morning person. The only other person left in the room with him now is Sokolov, who’s quietly snoring in the bunk bed closest to the door. Ilya gets dressed and kicks his bedpost on his way out of the door, shaking Sokolov awake. A mumbled “Fuck off” follows him into the hallway. 

There are three other doors on this floor, and Ilya heads for the one he knows is the bathroom. They stayed in this same building two years ago. He’s not surprised but somehow a little disappointed to find the floor plan hasn’t changed. The showers are still communal and kind mildewy looking. After he washes his face and brushes his teeth, he heads back out past rooms #5 and #6, and opens the door that leads into the stairwell.

Ilya spots Kolya and Kirill in the canteen, at the same table where they had eaten dinner the night before. He picks up a bowl at the buffet table, piles it high with cereal, pours milk over it, and heads for his friends. Kolya hands him the little sugar pot that’s in the middle of the table before he even greets him and Ilya proceeds to add an ungodly amount of sugar to his bowl of cereal.

“Who else is in your room?” Kirill asks, making a gross slurping sound while eating his porridge. Ilya already told them about how coach Kharlamov seems set on forcing him and Hollander together at any opportunity when the three of them hung out last night after putting their belongings away. Of course, those two lucky assholes got to be in the same room, a floor down from Ilya, with only three other guys. 

“Toivanen, Abramov, Vasilevsky and Sokolov – he’s still up there I think.”

Kolya snorts, “Sleeping beauty, as always,” and Kirill wiggles his eyebrows, proposing a wager, “300 rubles says he’ll be late for gym.” Neither Ilya nor Kolya take him up on it, because neither of them has 300 rubles to burn. 

After breakfast, they walk across the road to the building that houses the rec room they’re allowed to use in order to grab coffee there. It’s also still the same; big worn sofas, a TV, a foosball table, a small kitchenette with an objectively shitty drip coffee maker. 

There’s a door that leads to the restrooms off to the left, and another one that leads to a storage closet in the back right corner of the room. Promising, in theory, but there’s always people around. 

The walk to the gym is only a few minutes. The sun is out and Ilya feels so much warmer than the 18°C it probably is. The weather here really isn’t all that different from Moscow, but somehow feels infinitely better. Ilya loves training camp the same way he loves away games. The further he is from home, the freer he feels.

*****

Hollander is on one of the stationary bikes near the entrance when Ilya walks into the gym, five minutes to nine. He’s clearly been here for a while already, judging by the amount of kilometers shown on the little display and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Ilya is pleased to find the other boy looking back at him. As he should. 

Over the past few weeks, Ilya has discovered that teasing Hollander is one of his new favorite pastimes. After a quick glance to make sure no one else is watching, he lets his gaze drag slowly down Hollander’s body. His chest, his waist, his thighs – it’s clear the other is picking up on what is going on, and Ilya winks at him. Hollander’s face, already flushed with exertion, turns a few shades pinker.

Unfortunately for Ilya, Hollander is not above retaliation.

First the rowing machine – directly in front of his treadmill, forcing Ilya to watch the steady pull of Hollander’s arms for twenty excruciating minutes. Then the squat rack, somehow just within arm’s reach from where Ilya does his bench presses. 

Maybe this isn’t deliberate. Maybe Ilya’s brain is just broken. But by the time Hollander gets on the fucking hip abductor machine – and glances at him, just once – Ilya is convinced that this is premeditated psychological warfare.

Hollander is doing leg day, and he is making it Ilya’s problem. 

Later, in the afternoon, Kharlamov keeps pitting him and Hollander against each other. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d think the coach was in on it. Hollander, the little shit, keeps stealing the puck from him. Ilya tries so hard to be good – but there’s only so much he can take. 

When he inevitably has enough and slams Hollander into the boards with a slightly-harder-than-necessary check, Hollander fucking moans, and Ilya almost looses his footing.

After the scrimmage, they spend an hour reviewing old tapes. The whole time, Ilya wonders if there’s a way to subtly kick everyone except Hollander out of the video room. He could push him down in one of those chairs and…

Too bad Zhukov is the one with the keys. Vlascenko would’ve let Ilya bribe him. 

*****

Me: New idea! What if I kill him instead?

Sveta: Poor Ilyusha, I’d help you out, except I don’t want to

Me: </3

Me: Are you and Sergei coming tonight?

Sveta: Having dinner with my aunt, we’ll be at the compound tomorrow 

Me: Boo

Me: Tell your cousins I said hi ;)

Sveta: Gross

*****

Ilya spends the evening dominating anyone who dares challenge him at the foosball table. Smoking is technically allowed inside the building, but Ilya is also technically underage, so he goes outside and around the corner to light up a cigarette. At least the weather is lovely.

At some point, from where he’s leaning against the corner of the building, he spots coach Hollander walking towards the building the staff is staying in. She seems to spot Ilya too. The look she gives him is downright dirty. He lights another cigarette, just because.

Hollander is in the rec room too, still hanging out with fucking Tóth on one of the ugly sofas when Ilya comes back inside. What do those two even have to talk about all the damn time? Knitting? Gardening? Crossword puzzles? They’re both so boring, perfect for each other. 

Ilya manages to somewhat ignore Hollander’s existence for the rest of the night, his gaze only wanders over to where smiling at Tóth a handful of times.

Except later that night, Ilya is standing next to his bed (their bed!) and Hollander is lying there, facing the wall and breathing evenly. The other guys are sleeping too, Ilya may or may not have broken curfew by a little bit because Kirya managed to smuggle in some drinks. That’s not the point though.

The point is that Ilya is tipsy, somehow managed to brush his teeth and shower without waking up the whole floor, and is now supposed to get into bed and sleep. 

However, in order to sleep Ilya needs to climb up to his bed, and his mattress is only a meter or so above Hollander. Hollander, who is sleeping peacefully and smells like his own shower gel instead of the bland soap they have in the locker room back at the ice palace. Hollander, who pushed his blanket half off of himself in his sleep, his shirt is riding up, exposing the soft skin of his waist and lower back. 

There’s those dimples again. 

Usually, Ilya’s not above jerking off in a room with 5 other guys. 

But then again, usually he’s not jerking off about one of those 5 other guys.

******************************

St. Petersburg, August 2007

Shane much prefers protein powder in a smoothie over protein powder in orange juice, but without a blender around he’ll have to make do. He knows a lot of the other guys mix it with milk, but the concept of just drinking a glass of milk has always made him kinda nauseous for some reason. So, instead of a nice green smoothie with his neutral flavor protein powder mixed in, Shane is sipping on this weird, orange creamsicle-tasting concoction while the guys around him are eating porridge and eggs and fish.

Volkin is on his third serving of pancakes with sour cream and lox, and Shane thinks he’d actually be interested in trying it, it would even be okay with his diet (if he reduced the amount of sour cream, that is), but messing up his breakfast routine even more than he already has would stress him out. Maybe if they were back in Moscow, or even better, back home in Ottawa, he could risk it. But here, right now, there’s already so many unfamiliar, uncomfortable things happening around him. 

It must be obvious that Shane is overthinking something, because Volkin notices him staring. 

“Training today will be very intense,” Volkin says, wiping some sour cream from the corner of his mouth. “Goalies get, uh… celebrity coach for next few days!”

That explains the tension Shane has been sensing in the air this morning; it’s excitement. Upon a closer look it’s clear that Volkin and the other two goalies on the CSKA junior team, Fedorov and Marchenko, are all basically vibrating in their respective seats.

“A celebrity?” Shane’s mind supplies him with images of Ryan Reynolds in leg pads and Howie Mandel in a helmet. 

“Yes!” Volkin’s pale eyes are sparkling, “Used to be famous goalkeeper on Soviet Union team long time ago, Sergei Vetrov. Insane stats!”

Shane’s eyes widen in recognition, he definitely knows the name Sergei Vetrov. Everyone who loves hockey the way Shane does knows Vetrov, and on top of that, Shane did his research before letting his parents drag him to Moscow. 

Vetrov was the goalie for the CSKA team when they played in the Class A Soviet League, and represented the Union at the Olympics throughout the 80s, winning them two gold medals there. After that, he spent a few short but impressive seasons playing in the NHL for Boston. And that isn’t even the only reason Shane has heard about the man recently. These days, Vetrov is a minister for the Russian Federal Agency for Sport, and Shane’s own father has met the man a few times at official government events already. It’s a small world. 

Shane keeps listening and nodding as Volkin goes on to excitedly tell him a bunch of things about Vetrov that he already knows. He’s learned over the years that people like it when you let them talk, even though they’re not telling you anything new. With some people it’s easier to remember that. 

(Shane really wants these guys to like him.)

*****

It’s only the second day of training and Shane can already feel the exhaustion. Not necessarily due to the physical exertion, he’s used to that, but the schedule is more intense that the training camps he’d been to back at home, the 24/7 proximity to a bunch of people he doesn’t know as well as he does his own team back home and the language barrier are wearing him down. 

And then, on top of everything else, there’s Rozanov.

When Shane woke up in his bunk this morning, the other boy’s arm was hanging over the ledge, which is how Shane’s day started with a solid 5 minutes of staring at Rozanov’s hand. 

It’s a pretty big hand, which makes sense because Rozanov is fairly tall. His fingers are long and thick. There’s a mole on the side of his wrist. He has callouses that look rough, but Shane knows they feel nice against– 

He ends up taking a cold shower before going on his run, and things don’t really go back uphill from there. It’s like Rozanov is constantly in his peripheral vision somehow, and Shane swears that only in around 50% of cases it is because he himself puts him there. Conditioning training, tape review, lunch, edgework and power play drills. The last one ends up being the worst (for Shane’s sanity, at least) because they get put on the same line and every time Rozanov passes to him, they end up making eye contact and Shane’s evil traitor brain is way too pleased with that. The contrast is absurd, Tóth is on their line as well for this drill, and Shane doesn’t need to actively try not to preen while he passes the puck back and forth with him.

The whole thing is embarrassing and ridiculous and Shane should have just told Rozanov to fuck off when the other approached him on Monday night. Instead, here he is, less than 48 hours later and ready to significantly lower his standards for what would make a place private enough to hook up there. 

*****

Dinner that night turns out to be a more formal affair. They’re in a large restaurant, just outside of the training compound, and Shane thinks it’s probably due to the appearance of a few more coaches and staff members, Sergei Vetrov included. 

Vetrov looks official, even in what Shane thinks must be a casual look for someone who now spends his days working a high ranking government job. A sports coat, no tie, clean shaven and his dark hair slicked back. Vetrov is shorter than Shane would have expected, but everything about the man feels larger than life in spite of that. Next to him stands a young woman that Shane, at first glance, hopes isn’t his wife. He’s found that top athletes love dating younger women for some reason. At second glance, he wonders if she is his daughter. She can’t be much older than Shane. The relation between those two isn’t obvious, but the longer he looks the more he is convinced they have a similar face shape. The girl is beautiful, tan skin and bright eyes, reddish curls put up in a high ponytail. She could be a model. 

Still, Shane would have remained slightly in doubt about the whole wife-or-child thing, if it wasn’t for the fact that the girl leaves Vetrov’s side almost immediately and pretty much throws herself at Rozanov. 

She greets him with her hands slung around his neck and two kisses on his cheeks and Shane is kind of losing his appetite (for completely unrelated reasons, obviously). The mysterious, sudden nausea remains, even when the girl moves to hug Lipovsky and Galkin to greet them, before she sits down at their table. They’re too far away for Shane to hear what she is saying, but the three boys, plus the several other guys at surrounding tables, all listen with rapt attention. 

It takes a while, but when Shane finally manages to turn away again, it’s clear he isn’t the only one staring. Radoslav is sitting next to him with his mouth slightly open and Volkin is grinning ear to ear, “Should I have told you she is here too?”

Radoslav is red in the face and frowns, grumbling a small “Shut up,” before returning to his dinner. They talk about their day, Volkin sharing details of his ‘very cool, top secret’ goalie training sessions with them. Radoslav keeps up with the conversation, but gets redder and frownier every time he looks towards Rozanov’s table.

The whole affair drags on for way too long. People keep lingering and talking long after all the plates have been cleared, it’s noisy and stuffy and Shane is also back to constantly looking over to where Rozanov is sitting way too close to the girl.

All day, Shane has felt weird with Rozanov’s eyes on him, but now that he isn’t looking at him he finds himself upset about it. It’s silly, really, but now he just feels tense in a different way. The whole situation is overwhelming, Shane feels sweaty and keeping his focus is starting to get impossible. There’s probably been 3 new topics in the conversation since he’s last managed to tune back in. 

“I’ll be right back,” he mumbles without really looking at any of the other guys at the table, already getting up and heading for the exit that leads to the back patio. 

The air outside is noticeably cooler, if still a bit humid. Shane almost wishes he’d brought a sweater with him. The patio is paved with large cobblestones, a few small tables with chairs made from wood and metal stand under a tall tree. Off in one of the corners, he can see three guys sitting around a table smoking, but they’re quiet and far away enough for Shane to be afforded some peace and quiet. 

He focuses on just breathing for a few moments, before he goes to sit down at one of the tables closest to the trunk of the large tree. Is it an oak? Shane has no clue. Maybe he should have paid more attention in class when they covered botany. It’s a nice tree, the bark looks rough but in a way that he thinks would feel nice against his fingertips. There’s a little bit of light from the setting sun spilling through the dense green leaves. The shadow cast by the tree stretches all the way to the building. The shade is nice, there is no wind.

Shane didn’t even notice that he’d closed his eyes, until the sound of chair legs scraping against stone makes him open them again. Next to him, Ilya Rozanov is taking a seat at his table, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear.

“Having a good night, Hollander?” Rozanov asks while lighting the cigarette. The lighter in his hand looks worn, the way his thumb rolls over the spark wheel is distracting.

Is Shane having a good night? – No. 

Is Shane going to tell Rozanov about it? – Also no.

“The food was nice,” is the half-truth that he opts for. He could have also gone with ‘the company is nice’ but the company has also been acting really fucking weird all evening, so he’d rather avoid getting into it, if possible. 

Unfortunately, Rozanov seems to be able to see straight through Shane. Not surprising with the way he’s now staring at him again. (Is it bad that that seems to settle some of the anxiety that has been weighing on Shane’s chest?) 

“Tóth and Volkin do not entertain you enough tonight?”

“No, no, that’s not it, not at all! T-they’re great,” Shane stutters, too fast, “It’s just… I don’t know. Just feels like it’s been a long day, you know?”

Rozanov smoking is an incredibly intriguing sight from up close. The way he holds the cigarette between his long fingers makes it all seem strangely elegant. Shane watches him as he wraps his plush lips around the filter, softly, and his cheeks hollow as he inhales, making the tip glow brightly for a few brief moments. Once he releases the cigarette, his lips remain slightly parted before exhaling, out of the corner of his mouth, white smoke curls upwards and dissipates into the cooling air. 

Shane wonders what it would feel like to smoke a cigarette. 

Shane wonders what it would feel like to be a cigarette. 

He doesn’t get an answer to his non-question, and it feels like he’s let the silence go on for too long, or like he’s been staring too much, too intently. For lack of a better alternative Shane attempts to make small talk, but immediately ends up zeroing in on the one thing that’s been at the forefront of his mind all night. “What- … I mean, your… uh, that girl, she seems nice. Is she a friend of yours?” (He wants to melt into the floor, oh god.)

Rozanov’s lips quirk up around his cigarette, after another drag and another exhale, he says, “Yes, Sveta. She is the best.”

What an incredibly unsatisfying answer. It doesn’t tell Shane much of anything, really. But it’s not like he can just go and ask Rozanov whether she is his girlfriend, that would be fucking weird. Shane has no right, and he doesn’t want to come off as clingy. From the things he keeps hearing in the locker room, he assumed Rozanov was single and fully taking advantage of the fact, but seeing him now, so close with her, Shane has some doubts. (It’s not jealousy, mind you.)

“The best at what?”

Rozanov looks at him, perplexed at first, but then he huffs out a little laugh. Had Shane taken him too literally? Probably. He’s been working on that, and it happens much less frequently nowadays, but he’s tired and a little too desperate to know the answer to the question he didn’t ask.

Rozanov seems to consider his question for a while. He flicks the filter of his cigarette with his thumb, spilling ash on the cobblestones. 

“Best at everything, really. Sveta knows all about hockey, really smart, really pretty, really funny. Best person to spend time with.” There is a small, definitive nod punctuating his statement. 

Shane doesn’t know what to do with that answer. And apparently, he also doesn’t know what to do with his face, because it must have moved or contorted into whatever expression prompts Rozanov to smile at him, small and private now, and then he says, quietly, “... Don’t worry Hollander, you are really pretty too.”

The minor heart attack this compliment seems to cause is almost immediately interrupted by the sound of doors being thrown behind them. Shane is ready to ignore it until a voice calls out, “Ilyusha?”

They both turn, and there she is. Sveta is walking towards them, tucking a perfectly bouncy curl behind her ear. She’s beautiful and Shane is terrified of her. 

“Ah! Shane Hollander!” Sveta calls out, and she grins at Shane once she reaches them. Then plucks the cigarette from between Rozanov’s fingers. “I have heard much about you,” she takes a drag, and gives Shane a look that probably has some meaning hidden behind it, but he can’t decipher it. She makes no move to return the half-smoked cigarette to Rozanov.

Shane is a little surprised, although maybe he shouldn’t be. Rozanov just told him a few seconds ago that this girl ‘knows all about hockey’. Plus, he’s seen her father speak to his mother over dinner earlier, and they seemed to be familiar. Still, he hadn’t expected to be addressed by her. Her English is smooth, almost accent free. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says stiffly and extends his hand, not sure what else to do. 

She clasps his hand with hers and shakes it, smiling at him. “Svetlana Vetrova. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I hear you’ve been giving my Ilyusha quite some trouble – good on you!” 

Something about the way she says it, something about that smile, makes it hard to dislike her (even though Shane kind of feels like he should – ‘my Ilyusha’). 

Ultimately, he manages to swallow down all the complicated emotions brewing inside of him, and he returns her smile. “He’s been giving me trouble as well, but it’s been a great learning experience.” 

The reply seems to delight her, but before Shane can worry about whether or not he should try to keep this conversation going, Svetlana turns to Rozanov again and says, “We’re heading out soon, Kirya and Kolya are ready to get going.” She takes a last drag of his cigarette and then stubs it out in an ashtray on a neighboring table. Rozanov nods and Shane thinks this will be it, but suddenly her attention is on him again. 

“We’re going to get some drinks. Would you like to come along? I’d love to talk to you some more!”

Shane definitely wasn’t expecting that. 

“Oh! Uhm, thank you. But no, I… another time, maybe.”

Svetlana grins in a way that makes him feel like he stepped into a trap. “I will hold you to it, Shane Hollander.” Then she says something to Rozanov in Russian, and he gets up as she turns and starts heading back inside. Rozanov nods at Shane before following her. 

(Ilyusha!)

******************************

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

“Why did you invite him?”

“I told you why, because I wanted to talk to him.”

“Ah. Because you’re a vengeful spirit trying to ruin my life. I get it.”

“Aww, you don’t want to share your new toy with me?”

*****

It’s not even noon yet and Ilya is convinced that he is going to commit a crime. Kharlamov, the class instructor, whoever made the training schedule, they’re all on his hitlist.

Things had already started going wrong for him last night, when Ilya had let Sveta convince him that the weird bottle of brown tequila she had gotten off her cousins was harmless and wouldn’t hurt him. His head strongly disagrees. Not only had she poisoned him, she had offered no helpful advice on how to deal with his… predicament. Not that Ilya had actually asked — not in so many words, not with Kolya and Kirya sitting right there. Still, Sveta should have known. Sveta knows. She absolutely knows. But instead of taking him aside and being a good friend (either by offering help or a blowjob), all she did was tease him about how she wished Hollander had accepted her invitation. (“I bet he would have appreciated my tequila!” – Hollander probably doesn’t even know what tequila is.) 

Sveta is cruel, and so Ilya woke up hungover and pent up, but that by itself wasn’t enough to make him question all his life choices yet. Every day that begins at a breakfast table that doesn’t include Polina staring at him is theoretically a good one, and every bit of training brings him closer to a future in which he can leave that behind for good. 

The training schedule for this morning told him that he was in for off-ice training focussing on flexibility and balance, which had sounded innocent enough. 

Turns out, it’s not innocent at all. 

And Ilya won’t be either, soon enough, after he strangles whoever thought it would be a great idea to force the entire team to participate in a fucking yoga class. 

Fuck. He is so angry, so incredibly angry at everything and everyone. What did he do to deserve this kind of karma? Is the universe delivering punishment in the shape of Shane Hollander, stretching his limbs, lifting his shirt, right in front of Ilya? While he is surrounded by all of his other teammates?

It shouldn’t affect him the way it does. He’d had Hollander on his knees two weeks ago, he’d slept with some girl last weekend, hell, he’s pretty sure he’d drunkenly jerked off in the shower just last night. 

And yet. Ilya finds himself wondering whether a single instance of a neutral stimulus (yoga) followed by a natural stimulus (Hollander sucking his dick) was enough conditioning to provoke a full-on Pavlovian response (getting hard during this stupid fucking yoga class). 

Apparently yes. 

He wishes he could honestly say that he tried to think of anything else. Sad puppies, his brother, Kolya snorting tequila through his nose, or whatever else is a massive turn-off. 

Unfortunately, Ilya is too hungover to lie to himself, or to keep his impulsive thoughts in check. So he just keeps staring at Hollander, who, of course, is fucking perfect at every exercise they go through. He wonders just how flexible the other boy is. No one should be able to bend like that, not so easily, for fuck’s sake. Someone should come and save Ilya. (From himself? Or from Hollander? He’s not sure.)

At the same time, he’s exactly where he wants to be and it’s driving him mad. Ilya used to be so good at this. At shutting things down.

Why the fuck is Hollander bent over like this now?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ilya wants to scream. He’s pressing his nails into his palms hard enough to hurt, but it doesn’t help. He’s either going to die or he’s going to do something incredibly fucking stupid if he keeps staring. Fuck his family. Fuck coach Kharlamov and his threats. Right now Ilya feels like he’s not going to make it to the NHL, or back to Moscow, or even just out of this fucking room. 

Rage and arousal are coiled tight around each other, burning white hot in Ilya’s stomach. Hollander’s thighs flex and Ilya is pretty sure he makes some kind of pained noise, involuntarily, just trying to keep himself from disintegrating right on this dumb yoga mat.  

… and now Hollander is looking over his shoulder, right at him. 

FUCK THIS.

Ilya is up off the floor and out of the door in the blink of an eye. Flight is better than fight, because either he really does end up in prison, or fighting turns into fucking (which would probably also land him in prison, to be honest). 

There’s 10 minutes of class left, which means Ilya has 10 minutes to get his shit figured out. There’s a bathroom just down the hall, which is perfect because he feels like he’s about to vomit from how fucking mad and confused he is. 

The Ilya in the mirror looks insane, sweaty and wide eyed, simultaneously pale and flushed. 

But the universe clearly isn’t done doling out punishment. Before Ilya can even consider whether he should turn around to try and throw up in the toilet instead of the sink, there’s a knock at the door. 

“Иди на хуй!”

“... Rude. It’s me.”

Of fucking course it is. 

Why the fuck is Hollander here? Hasn’t he done enough? He’s supposed to be this perfect little hockey robot, finish his dumb yoga class, impress everyone by showing them that he can put his legs behind his head or something. (The nausea is gone, replaced by more arousal.)

Against his better judgement and all instincts for self-preservation, Ilya unlocks the door. Hollander steps inside and there is not enough fucking room for both of them in this stupid single occupancy bathroom, Ilya is trying desperately to cling to the last shred of personal space available.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Ilya hisses, forcefully closing the door behind Hollander and locking it again. 

For a moment, there may or may not have been a little sliver of concern peeking through Hollander’s mask, but as soon as the words are out of Ilya’s mouth, it melts into bitter offense. His eyebrows pull together, his nose scrunches up, freckles distorted. (Hollander looks like an angry little cat.)

“Wow, well excuse me for worrying. Here I thought you were sick or something and wanted to check if you needed anything. You know, like a decent fucking person?”

It only makes Ilya angrier. Who does Hollander think he is? “Don’t need help from you, fuck off now.”

Hollander huffs and takes a step into Ilya’s space, crowding him back against the door. His dark eyes are narrowed and he regards him closely before saying, “I don’t get you, why are you being such a bitch about this?”

And that fucking does it. (It didn’t take much at all.) Ilya’s hands are on Hollander’s shoulders before he can stop to think, shoving him backwards towards the counter that holds the sink. He doesn’t give him a second to recover before getting up in his face, pushing him further. 

“I’m the bitch? Really? When you need fucking princess treatment?”

Hollander’s eyebrows are still drawn together in anger, but they lift slightly upwards, confused. His freckles remain scrunched up, he’s frowning. “Princess treatment?” 

Ilya shrugs, he’s tired of trying to speak English, tired of words in general. Turns out, they’re not even necessary, because Hollander seems to catch on after a few seconds. 

“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov. That’s what this is about? – Well, excuse me for thinking with my brain and not just with my dick,” Hollander’s voice is a harsh whisper now, Ilya can feel his breath on his face. “You’re over here, what, pouting because you’re horny? Do you know how fucking dumb this is? How risky? This could fuck everything up, for both of us!”

And fuck, Ilya knows, okay? Ilya is painfully aware of just how stupid the entire situation is. It’s true, he’s throwing a tantrum because Hollander looks too good in his ugly little gym shorts and won’t suck Ilya’s dick about it. The entire… whatever this thing between them is, is fucking ridiculous. He’s losing control. And it’s intoxicating.

Hollander’s eyes are wild, his lashes twitch, Ilya can feel the frustration rolling off of him now. He looks so tense, his hands are gripping the counter behind him with white knuckles. His body is warm, he’s breathing just a tick too fast… and Ilya gets the suspicion that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t as alone with his problem as he’d thought. 

He makes sure to look into Hollander’s eyes, fully aware that it’s a shit idea, but then opens his mouth in spite of it. It’s really just a guess, but he states it like it’s a fact, “... But you still want to.”

The reaction is instant. Defeat and something that looks like relief wash over Hollander’s features, some of the tension disappears, his shoulders slump, “... Yeah.” 

When you think about it, a bathroom like this is pretty much designed for privacy. 

Ilya’s hands are under Hollander’s shirt before he can think twice. Or maybe Hollander is the one who tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair first? In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter.

His skin is warm and smooth, a little sticky with sweat. Ilya wants to lick the salt off his skin, but he’ll have to wait until later, because Hollander’s mouth is on his, and Ilya brushes his lips against his. The world may as well cease existing, because the only thing that’s relevant is the way Hollander opens his mouth for Ilya to slip his tongue inside of him. He tastes sweet, fruity, and Ilya licks deeper into him, wanting to taste more. 

They’re fully pressed against each other, but it feels like Hollander is trying to pull Ilya in closer still. He sighs into Ilya’s mouth like he’s been waiting for this too, like he’s been just as desperate, if not more so. The thought makes Ilya’s cock twitch in his gym shorts. 

He slides his hands down Hollander’s sides, palms his ass, then sinks his fingers into the supple flesh of Hollander’s thighs. Firm muscles, soft skin. Ilya lifts him up, more easily than he’d expected, and as soon as Hollander is sitting on the counter, he wraps his legs around Ilya’s hips. Would he wrap them around Ilya’s head instead, if he asked him to?

They don’t break their kiss, breathing isn’t nearly as important. Hollander licks into Ilya’s mouth, Ilya gently bites his lip, keeps his hands on the other boy’s thighs, kneading them. Their erections are pressed against each other through their gym shorts and the whole situation is almost hilariously familiar by now. Ilya needs to get out of these clothes, needs Hollander to get out of his. Ilya wants to taste the sweat on his thighs. He wants Hollander to get on his knees on this filthy bathroom floor to suck his dick. He wants him to beg for it.

And then, just as Ilya is about to start grinding their hips together, noise cuts through the hallway outside, bursting their little bubble filled with quiet moans, hot touches and heavy breathing. 

The sound of a door opening, footsteps, conversations, laughter. There’s 23 boys and the yoga instructor walking out of the classroom, down the hallway towards where only a thin door separates them from Ilya and Hollander. 

They’re both frozen, pulled back just enough to stare at each other in shock, still sharing their breaths, half a movement away from dry humping at this point. They don’t make a sound.

The wave of noise passes by the bathroom door slowly, continuing down the hall. 

After a few moments of terror, the sounds begin to fade, and Ilya feels Hollander’s hand twitch against his scalp. He licks his lips, leans back in– 

“Hollzy?”

Chapter End Notes

Hello, hello, I'm back and I missed you all! Can't believe how many people have commented, left kudos and even bookmarked this story. Thank you so much, I'm legit crying happy tears over this.

I spent a lot of time reminiscing about my own summer camp experiences while writing this, and there will be more to come. It led me to conclude that adults don't give enough fucks and teenagers are horrible, horny little monsters (but what else is new?).

 

I'm following the men's hockey semi-finals right now and damn, that's brutal. Can't wait for the finale!

Other than that, the league back home has resumed, and home team is starting us off with a win, a loss and another game to play on Sunday night. Tune in for my next report!

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

I rewrote this chapter like three times and it made me realize that I was kind of a weird teenager. Doing things you're not supposed to do is scary, but the rush is addictive.

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

Another name just got added to the top of Ilya’s (s)hit list; Radoslav Tóth. 

His hands are still on Hollander’s thighs, pushing his legs apart, and Hollander – Hollzy – still hasn’t let go of Ilya, one hand tangled in his hair and the other on his bicep. 

Unfortunately, the panicked expression is back on his freckled face at full force. He looks like a little deer about to get run over; big, brown eyes wide in terror. Fuck. It takes more willpower than Ilya would ever willingly admit to quietly step back and give Hollander some space. That might have been the wrong move though, because Hollander looks like he’s completely untethered now, like Ilya’s hands on him were the only thing keeping him grounded. Hollander’s whole body shudders with fast, shallow breaths and dread is slowly creeping down Ilya’s spine.

There is a knock on the door, “Are you okay?”

It’s instinctual, the way Ilya grabs Hollander’s hand and squeezes tightly. There’s a heavy, uncomfortably familiar pull in Ilya’s chest as he observes the way Hollander’s eyes regain focus. The shaking doesn’t stop entirely, but his breathing calms down to the point where he can respond to Tóth’s inquiry, “I… Y-yeah, sorry, I-... g-give me… a second.” 

Hollander sits on the counter for a few more deep breaths. Then he squeezes Ilya’s hand back before letting go and sliding down to stand again. Ilya can’t read the expression on his face clearly. Embarrassment? Relief? Frustration? Fear? For that matter, he has no clue what his own face is doing either.

Hollander turns and opens the tap, starts to splash his face with cold water and collects some in his palm to pour it over the back of his neck. He’s still a little wobbly as he shuts the water off and dries his face in his shirt. Ilya wants to squeeze him again. Hollander looks like he’d like to be squeezed again. But they can both hear Tóth’s feet shuffling outside of the room, so instead Ilya tries to cram himself into the small space behind the door. 

It feels wrong, watching as Hollander carefully arranges his face, almost perfectly, into the usual mask. His brown eyes flicker over to Ilya one last time, and then he opens the door, quickly sliding out and shutting it again.

“S-Sorry, dude… I was just feeling really dizzy, for some reason,” Ilya hears him say. Tóth replies, but Ilya isn’t really listening to him. He just waits until the footsteps disappear down the hall. 

(Half a life ago, Ilya held his Mama’s hand as tight as he could, and she wiped the tears off her face. It had felt like half an eternity before she squeezed back, finally smiling at him again.)

******************************

St. Petersburg, August 2007

It’s not technically a lie when Shane tells Radoslav that he feels dizzy and needs to go lie down for a bit. He’s just not disclosing that the reason for the dizziness isn’t overexertion, but rather Ilya Rozanov. 

The bunkbed mattress is hard and squeaky, Shane is lying on top of his made-up bed staring at the wooden slats supporting the (likely equally uncomfortable and noisy) mattress above him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice is nagging him about lying down on the bed without showering and while still in his workout clothes, but it’s drowned out by the raging storm of anxiety that’s currently taking center stage. There’s the ever-present sound of blades on ice ringing through his head, but it sounds grating instead of soothing now.

Shane doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to think right now, there is too much going on inside of him, all at once. 

The whole situation felt like a close call in one way, and not that close at all in another. Definitely a lot less risky than the locker room at the ice palace, or the equipment storage. But Radoslav had been right outside the door! And how did he even know Shane was in there? 

Could Shane just have pretended to not be there? Or told him to go away? 

That probably wouldn’t have felt right either, and in the moment he felt so fucking panicked, leaving seemed like the obvious, correct choice. But was it? If so, then why was he lying here and kind of regretting it now? What would have happened if Shane had stayed there with Rozanov?

He rolls to the side, curling in on himself a little bit. God, Shane feels so fucking pathetic. All of this is so incredibly irresponsible, and so not like him at all. Maybe his mother is right, he is turning into a different person. 

It’s like instead of being anxious about what is happening, he’s anxious over the fact that he feels like he should be more anxious. Does that even make sense? The terrifying part is how he’s not all that terrified and way too willing to give into… whatever this thing between him and Rozanov is. 

Shane could have just stayed put, finished the yoga class, ignored Rozanov, and left for lunch with the other guys. But he hadn’t wanted to. He could feel Rozanov looking at him throughout the class, and then he’d looked back, and his mind went and supplied him with high definition memories of how he’d let Shane touch him when they were stretching back in the arena gym in Moscow. So when Rozanov got up and left Shane didn’t even think, his legs just moved and he followed, trusting it would be okay. 

And now Shane can still feel the weight of Rozanov’s hands on his thighs.

Impulsively, he wishes they were still there. The thought makes his chest feel tight and hot with shame, like he’s a tiny star about to collapse in on himself. 

*****

Shane sleeps badly and desperately wants to blame it on the horrible mattress. He kept tossing and turning, and ended up waking himself up with the squeaking it caused. Nevermind how he then proceeded to zero in on Rozanov’s breathing above him. This is all on the mattress.

He’s already decided for himself that what happened in the bathroom yesterday was a catastrophe and he should avoid putting himself in other situations like that at any cost. Which is terrible, because Rozanov is right there. In bed above Shane when he gets up, in the doorway when he returns from his morning run, at the next table over while Shane is choking down the unholy orange creamsicle protein drink. Rozanov doesn’t say anything, barely even looks at him, and Shane does (or tries to do) the same. 

The day drags on and on, Rozanov feels more and more like a splinter trapped under Shane’s skin. Present, aching, too deep to get out. Shane needs to come up with a different metaphor because usually when he gets splinters in his fingers, he tries sucking them out and… yeah, no, that’s a forbidden thought.

For once, the silence between them doesn’t feel like tension building. It just feels awkward, neutral. (Lacking.)

Shane almost forgot that coach Kharlamov has it out for him. He’s sharply reminded during their on-ice practice that afternoon, when the head coach announces the drill he had planned and promptly proceeds to put Shane and Rozanov on the same line together, forcing Shane to wing for the other boy. 

Rozanov doesn’t look like he minds much, beyond the fact that Shane is replacing Galkin at his right. In fact, he even looks over at him, just briefly, and asks, “Okay?” 

Shane wonders how a single two syllable word can be so heavily accented. He looks over Rozanov’s shoulder instead of at his face when he flatly responds, “Yeah.”

They’re playing 3-on-2 and Shane can practically feel the tension in the air. Not the usual tension between him and Rozanov, no, that is strangely absent, but rather the tension that seems to keep building more and more the closer they get to next week’s exposition tournament. As soon as there is a goal, another puck gets dropped into the game, no breaks. Shane’s legs are starting to burn. Abramov is one of the two defenders they’re up against and it’s more obvious than ever that he harbors a deep dislike for Shane. He checks him harder than necessary, almost high-sticks him in the face at one point. No penalties get called.

It happens a few pucks into the drill. Shane’s got the puck, but both Abramov and Vasilevsky are closing in on him from both sides. He’s halfway across the ice from Rozanov and Lipovsky, and the pressure is building. Shane knows he can theoretically outskate the two defensemen, but not from his current position. Normally he’d pass wide, but with only three players on his team, chances of that working are slim. 

There’s no choice, just instinct. He needs to get out of there. Shane takes a breath and draws back his stick, but on the downswing he passes over the puck. Vasilevsky’s eyes follow the imagined trajectory and Shane uses his backhand to instead send the puck into the open space in the opposite direction without looking.

And Rozanov is already there. He’s already there, the pass connects and he picks the puck up with his stick. It was unplanned, blind, there was no call or signal. Just instinct. Like both of them just knew the other would figure it out. Rozanov is quick as lightning as he circles wide around Shane and the two defenders, aims and scores cleanly. 

For a split second, their eyes meet. The world seems to tilt but Shane stays solid on his feet. Blades on ice, where he belongs. 

There are no other pucks dropping, Lipovsky’s cheering cuts through the quiet aftermath of their final goal. He has his arm slung over Rozanov’s shoulder and is dragging him along as he slides towards Shane. “You two play nice? Since when?” 

Shane bites his lip. He’s pretty sure this is a hypothetical question and he doesn’t want to have to think about the answer. Rozanov just shrugs, cool as always as he teases, “Hollander passes better when scared of getting crushed maybe.” 

Shane expects more chirping, but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one, and practice goes on. 

The uncertainty stays in his head and out of his play, which is eerily effortless. It’s tight, it’s fast. Shane cuts left before Rozanov even signals him to, they adjust their speed to each other flawlessly. Coach Kharlamov seems satisfied with the outcome of his torture tactics.

Shane has always felt steady on the ice, but this feels like it’s on another level. If skating is like breathing, then playing like this is like finding out he can do it underwater. He loves it and it terrifies him.

Later, in the chaos of the locker room, Shane can feel the familiar weight of Rozanov’s gaze returning to him. He’s in the stall next to Shane’s, watching him, and no one else sees. 

Neither of them says anything for a while, Shane fumbles with the laces of his right skate, the same way he always does. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rozanov crack his shoulder before taking off his pads, the same way he always does.

“You trusted me,” Shane hears as he’s taking off his shin guards. It’s quiet, but it makes him look up at Rozanov with wide eyes all the same. The other boy isn’t teasing him, it’s not a chirp but rather just a fact. Shane nods and looks back down.

Once his shin guards are off, he turns to Rozanov again. “So did you,” he says.

“Yes.”

*****

Friday dinner is an uneventful affair – or it should be. The canteen is a mess of bodies and noise, the same way it has been all week. Rozanov is back at his usual table with Galkin and Lipovsky, forever at the edge of Shane’s vision. At first glance, everything is normal. Except the more Shane tries to eat of the horrible food they’re serving tonight, the more obvious it gets that something is up with Radoslav and Volkin. They’re looking at him weird. And if Shane notices it, then it must be pretty damn obvious. 

“Okay, spill,” Shane sighs and puts his fork down, looking at his friends expectantly. 

Volkin seems confused for a moment, but then seems to understand. He clears his throat, his voice is measured, carefully drawing out his words as he begins, “So… Hollzy, we were thinking… ” Volkin nudges Radoslav with his elbow and the other continues, “You see, Kirill – you know, Lipovsky – he has some plans for tomorrow night and asked if we wanted to join him.”

Volkin nods, “Yes, that! You are invited too and, well, how do you say this? Is not your thing, we think? But we would really like you to come too!”

“Yes! It’s not a big deal really,” Radoslav shrugs, but the nonchalance seems fake, “We did it last year too, no issues. Maybe you would even like it!”

The way the two of them are beating around the bush is making Shane nervous, the way Radoslav says ‘no issues’ seems to promise that, absolutely, there will be issues. He narrows his eyes at them. “What… what kinda plans are we talking about?” 

Volkin sucks his lip between his teeth, Radoslav looks at the ceiling. Then finally, “We’re going clubbing.”

Shane stares at them, opens his mouth and closes it again a few times before he manages to say, “Absolutely not.”

The reaction is instant, pouting lips and big round eyes, his friends expected this answer and are ready to plead with him. Volkin’s eyes look almost watery as he mumbles, “Oh come on, Hollzy, is just this once,” and Toth follows up with “We go out all the time, you can’t just leave Russia without ever coming with us. Please?”

Shane has a million reasons to refuse. First off, the whole thing is probably illegal. They’re 16, that’s definitely not clubbing age. (He knows that this doesn’t seem to stop the other guys on the team from regularly going out, though.) Second, his mother is right there! Just a few tables over. She would never let him go to a club, not at his age, not here, not while he’s at a training camp – which is a great third reason, actually. They’re here to train, not to get drunk or stay out late and mess up their schedules. And speaking of schedules, reason number four, the whole thing seems like a massive loss of control waiting to happen. Clubs are loud and overwhelming and busy. It doesn’t sound like an environment Shane would ever be comfortable in.

However, when Shane opens his mouth again, the ‘no’ doesn’t come out. 

Volkin seems to read his mind and takes his chance to cut in, “Come on, Hollzy. Always working, always training. Do you not want to live a little sometimes?” 

Ouch. That hits close to home for Shane, and Radoslav joins to double down, “We just really want you there, man. See it as a quintessential cultural experience, we want to share that with you.”

We want to share that with you. That one feels almost unfair. It hits him uncomfortably deep and makes him feel warm at the same time. 

Then Radoslav picks out the last metaphorical nail to hammer into Shane’s coffin, “Summer will be over before you know it. We just want to spend time with you while we can.”

Shane finds words, but again, ‘no’ isn’t among them. “I don’t even drink,” he says instead. 

Radoslav shrugs, “Then don’t, it’s not mandatory,” and Volkin adds, “You do not even have to dance, if you do not want. Just think, okay? Is tomorrow night.”

Shane bites his lip. There’s a fifth reason for his apprehension and that fifth reason is currently sitting at the neighboring table shoveling pasta into his face, joking around. If Lipovsky is the one who invited them to come along to this club, then Rozanov is guaranteed to be there too.

Then again, things went pretty well during practice, right? They played hard, they played well, it was only a little bit awkward. Shane wouldn’t ever admit it, but he is curious to see Rozanov in his supposed element, out and about. 

And then there’s ‘We just really want you there’. And the fact that Shane hasn’t ever done anything like this before, likely won’t ever have the opportunity to do anything like this again. 

He can do this. Right?

“... Yeah, okay,” Shane agrees quietly and picks his fork back up. 

He has to be able to do this. (Right?)

*****

Shane wakes up on Saturday with a knot in his stomach. The day is a blur and drags on simultaneously. He feels restless, he keeps checking the time. Every time he sees his mother, a wave of panic washes over him. (What if she knows?) Every time he sees Rozanov, he wonders what the night will be like. (What will he be like? Does he know Shane is coming? Will he… suggest they find some privacy?)

For the first time in his entire life, Shane wonders what to wear. He doesn’t care about clothes at all, usually he just ends up looking like he’s going to the gym. For important events, his mother picks things out for him. He feels embarrassed about that now, although it had never bothered him before. 

He looks through his duffle bag again, but comes to the same conclusion. None of his clothes are what he would consider club-appropriate. He brings it up with Radoslav during their break this morning and before Shane even makes it to the canteen for lunch, his friend hands him a neatly folded bundle of clothes. 

“The shirt is mine, the pants are Kirill’s, I think it should fit,” Radoslav says with an easy smile that would usually soothe Shane’s anxiety, but fails to do so today. The clothes do fit at least, but he has no idea if he looks good in them. He’s too embarrassed to ask. 

There’s the sound of a puck crashing into the boards, bouncing through Shane’s brain, slowly making him lose his mind. Even with his outfit for the night secured, Shane remains a nervous wreck. What if it’s too loud and he has a meltdown about it? What if there’s too many people and he ends up feeling claustrophobic? What if he commits some massive social faux pas and disappoints his friends?

It’s only when he finally steps onto the rink that afternoon that his brain shuts up. This is his domain. The real sound of metal carving through ice replaces the imitation that plays on a loop inside his head. The weight of the stick in his hands and the physical exertion take up his focus as he gives in to his muscle memory. 

Practice goes smoothly again. Shane and Rozanov are in sync again, too. It’s easier to look him in the eyes again now that they’re on the ice. There are no words spoken, because they’re not needed. A nod here, a grin there. The way they dominate the rink together feels almost casual. 

After a particularly sharp play during a scrimmage, Rozanov skates past Shane, close enough to lightly bump their shoulders together. “Careful, Hollander, you make me look good.” It’s a chirp, but only technically. The crooked grin on Rozanov’s face seems just a touch too genuine. Shane rolls his eyes and presses his lips together, but doesn’t succeed in hiding his smile.

Unfortunately, practice can only go on for so long. As Shane heads down the tunnel towards the lockers he can’t help but wonder. If it’s so easy here – why can’t it be like this all the time?

Before he knows it Shane is back on unfrozen ground and back to slowly driving himself crazy. He feels marginally less on edge though, and that’s got to be worth something. 

*****

The moment Shane has been dreading comes just after dinner, when his mother appears beside him as he’s putting away his tray. It starts with an “Are you alright, dear?” and devolves into a lecture before he can answer. 

Has he been eating enough? Has he been eating the right things? Oh, you had the salad, good. I think you need to get your blades resharpened before the next on-ice session. I know it’s frustrating, but when you’re on a line with Sokolov, you need to adjust to his speed, otherwise you won’t get anywhere. 

It lands like a punch when she says, “I see you’ve been making peace with Rozanov,” and it’s made worse by the fact that now she chooses to leave room for Shane to answer. 

“Yes, I’ve been trying to, at least,” it feels like there are a thousand spotlights pointed right at him as he says it. 

“Good. I’m proud of you, Shane. I know he’s difficult to work with, not your speed at all, but these past few days on this ice? Great. If you keep it up, Kharlamov won’t have a choice other than to put you on the roster for all the games next week.”

‘Not your speed at all.’ Huh. It feels so strange to hear her say that. Because she’s not wrong, but she isn’t right either. Shane and Rozanov are fundamentally different; different personalities, different play styles. However, there are some things they have in common. Some things where it feels like they’re exactly each other’s speed. 

“Are you listening?” – oops. Shane blinks the thoughts away and refocuses on his mother. “Are you sure you’re alright? You seem stressed. Is it the expo next week? You should get some rest.”

There it is, the dread, sitting heavy in his stomach. “I’ll be fine, mom.”

She looks him up and down and it makes him feel naked, like he forgot to put his skin on. Whatever she sees doesn’t convince her, and Shane can feel himself start to sweat, “You should go to bed early.” 

Her tone makes it sound like a statement rather than a suggestion. She is right and she knows him better than anyone, maybe he should just go to sleep. 

… But he can see Radoslav and Volkin, still sitting at their dinner table. 

“I promise mom, I’m fine. Just gonna hang out with the boys for a while tonight.” He says it too quickly, looking over her shoulder. 

His mother sighs, conceding “Just don’t stay up too late, okay?”

Well, fuck. Shane’s breathing stutters at that. He hopes she doesn’t notice, but he’s rarely that lucky, so instead he hurries to answer, “Yeah, promise.”

He hasn’t lied to her in years, not since he was a small child. She nods in response and it makes him nauseous. Then she smiles and wishes him a good night. He watches her leave and it feels like something is slipping out of his hands.

*****

There’s scratches on the bathroom mirror, and Shane runs a hand through his hair for the third time in an effort to make it look better. The outfit Radoslav gathered for him really isn’t too outrageous, but the clothes still feel strange against his skin. He’s too aware of where the collar of the black and white striped polo touches his neck and the baggy jeans feel like they sit too low on his hips – but Radoslav tells him he looks good, and Volkin agrees. 

The hallway feels too quiet, despite the noises spilling from various rooms, and the stairs seem to creak twice as loud as they usually do. It’s not even that late yet, lots of the boys are still milling about, but Shane keeps looking over his shoulder, like he expects his mother to walk around a corner at any moment. 

Shane feels his heart sink when they step out of the dorm building and run straight into assistant coach Vlascenko, loitering next to the door. His heartbeat is racing but Radoslav and Volkin don’t seem to be worried at all. Instead, Volkin reaches out his hand and – fist bumps Vlascenko? Weird.

“Не возвращайтесь слишком поздно, я вас не заметил,” Vlascenko sounds indifferent. He lets his gaze wander over their group but doesn’t let it linger on any of them.

Volkin nods and replies, “Мы вас тоже не заметили – конечно.” Vlascenko seems satisfied with whatever was said and walks off to the rec room building. 

The confusion must be written plain on Shane’s face, because after they walk a few meters down the street, Radoslav turns to him. He reaches his hand out as if to put it on Shane’s shoulder, but reconsiders and drops it back to his side. “It’s always good to inform a responsible adult, right?”

Volkin snorts at that, “Responsible? I say trustworthy. He will not tell, but is good in case there is an emergency.”

They don’t offer any further explanation, and Shane doesn’t dare ask what would constitute an emergency. He just follows them down the street, still glancing over his shoulder every once in a while, before they round the corner. Just outside the training compound, a taxi waits for them. 

Radoslav opens the door and Shane hesitates for a beat. Before he steps into the car, he checks his phone. 

Nothing. He tells himself that’s a good sign. 

*****

Lipovsky is waiting for them outside when they arrive, flanked by two girls. He introduces them as Daryana and Valeriya, and Shane can’t help but notice that neither Rozanov nor Galkin seem to be there. He feels disappointed for a moment, and then embarrassed, hoping that it doesn’t show on his face.

There isn’t too much time for him to dwell on it though, because as soon as they get in the queue, fear creeps back in to drown everything else out. There’s two big men dressed in black waiting at the door, checking IDs and judging the potential guests.

Volkin nudges him, “Try not to look so Canadian, just don’t say anything.” 

Shane swallows and nods. He has no idea what it means to ‘look Canadian’ but he forces his shoulders to relax. The tension he feels doesn’t dissipate, by the time they reach the front of the line, he’s clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. 

Lipovsky and Valeriya do all the talking, Shane has no clue what is said but asking would definitely make him ‘look Canadian’, so he just keeps pressing his teeth together. They’re admitted after a few words and bills exchanged, no IDs checked, no questions asked.

The sensory overload hits him as soon as they’re through the doors. A wall of noise envelops them, getting louder and denser with every step he takes further into the building. They pass a little coatcheck window and a bar, and Lipovsky leads them down a long, winding corridor, up a set of stairs, past groups of people.

It feels like there isn’t enough space. Shane is convinced this place must violate every fire safety code known to man as he has to squeeze past other club goers, he still ends up bumping into them. One guy looks mad about it, a girl smiles, most people ignore him. 

The temperature keeps rising, it’s noticeably hotter on the upper floor and Shane has already lost all sense of direction and then they round a few corners, leaving him completely disoriented. One last corner and he’s blinded as the dim blue lighting of the hallways is replaced by flashing strobes. The music is so loud Shane can barely hear his own thoughts, they’ve been here for maybe 5 minutes and he already feels sweaty.  

He wonders whether this is what it feels like for everyone else too.

The two girls are instantly drawn to the bar, and they return with drinks for the whole group before Shane can manage to get his bearings back. A shot glass is pressed into his hands, the cold of it feels good against his sticky palms. Things happen too fast, he can’t even think before glasses are raised and Shane just goes along with it. The clear liquid is cold and sharp in his mouth and burns his throat as he swallows. 

Shane ends up coughing and Volkin slaps him on the back a few times. Radoslav looks apologetic as he leans in close, “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to, remember?”

That explains the horrible taste and the heat spreading through Shane’s stomach. “Yeah, I think this isn’t for me,” he answers, voice still a bit rough. He could have done without the experience, but at least now he absolutely knows for sure. 

Radoslav promises to keep an eye on the next round of drinks and then the girls pull them towards the dance floor. The temperature seems to rise another few degrees, and it’s impossible to avoid bumping into other people here. None of the others seem to mind it, but Shane feels unsteady. He checks his phone again. No signal.

Volkin drifts off towards the front of the crowd where the DJ is set up on an elevated platform, and Lipovsky stops to talk with a random guy. Radoslav and the girls stay next to him, but as the music shifts, so does the movement of the crowd and Shane ends up being pushed back a few steps as another group of people cuts between him and his companions. 

Shane doesn’t know how to navigate this space. Panic wells up again as his eyes scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face. Before he can turn, a hand wraps around his arm. Slender, manicured fingers that don’t fully close around his wrist, but have enough strength to pull him in. Daryana smiles and a wave of gratitude washes over Shane. 

He remains stiff, but puts a little more effort into swaying along to the music now. Songs bleed into each other, the flashing lights shift colors, Volkin returns and says something about the DJ but it’s too loud for Shane to fully understand him. He feels ridiculous and awkward, but no longer like he’s drowning in all the sensory input he’s receiving. 

That is, until Lipovsky yells something and points towards the center of the dance floor. Shane’s eyes follow the direction of his hand and land right on Rozanov. 

The other boy is facing away from them, but Shane knows it must be him. He’s tall enough to stand out from the crowd, the light makes his short curls glow. There is something about the way he moves that Shane would recognize anywhere. Maybe it’s the way he rolls his shoulders, so similar to the movement that follows him removing his pads when they’re in the locker room. It’s a sight Shane has seen dozens of times now, and observed closer than he probably should have. Rozanov is here after all.

His friends move to pull him towards Rozanov and the people surrounding him, but Shane steps aside. He waves his hand at Radoslav and hangs back for a moment, trying to process the scene before him. 

Rozanov is here, and there is a hand sliding up his arm. Dark red nail polish. Shane can see the way he tilts his head back to laugh. The other boy is at ease, confident and in his element. 

Maybe it’s the flashing lights, but he looks like a completely different person from the Rozanov Shane knows on the ice. Lighter, maybe more genuine. The only time Shane has ever seen him laugh like that before was when it was just the two of them. 

The painted nails curl into the fabric of the shirt Rozanov is wearing and Shane watches as he tilts his head. The hand is Svetlana’s, Shane can see her red curls and the fondness on Rozanov’s face. He feels as though the world around him has gotten a little quieter, as if someone turned the volume down a few ticks in order to force Shane to focus on all the points at which Rozanov is in contact with the people around him.

And then – Rozanov looks at him. He lifts his head to laugh again and his gaze slides over his shoulder, landing on Shane. 

His expression shifts. At first there’s recognition, his eyebrows lift just barely. Then the corner of his mouth tilts up, slow and deliberate, shaping that crooked smirk Shane has become familiar with by now. The eye contact lingers for a few beats before Rozanov turns back. Somehow it still feels like part of his attention is on Shane. 

It takes Shane another few moments before he moves, trying to steady himself before he walks towards the group. He briefly considers walking around their circle, but decides it would be awkward and obvious, so instead he ends up standing next to Rozanov. Svetlana’s hand is still on his arm, and now that he’s closer, Shane can see that Rozanov’s arm is wrapped around her. 

The pleased expression on the other boy’s face is obvious as Shane settles in beside him. His smirk widens, “Hollander, are you lost?” 

The others around them giggle. Radoslav smiles, but there’s something slightly apologetic about it. Shane tries to chuckle along, but he can feel color rising to his cheeks. He’s relieved to find the attention of the group doesn’t stay on him for more than a second though. 

Shane is trying to recalibrate, figure out what to do and where to move, when he feels fingers grazing his lower back. He starts to turn his head, but before he can look over his shoulder, he’s captured by the way Rozanov is looking at him, closer now than he was a moment ago, appraising Shane. 

He’s the one touching him.

His voice is low as he speaks, Shane almost doesn’t catch it over the noise around them. “I did not think you would come,” Rozanov says. Shane can feel his breath against his skin and the way his fingertips slowly glide over his back. The weight of his gaze as he scans over Shane is an almost physical sensation. 

“You look good. Relax.”

The crowd around them shifts, the music keeps blaring, but for a few seconds it feels as if they're the only two people in the room. 

Then the moment shatters as quickly as it came. Before Shane can figure out whether or not he should respond, a hand reaches across him to tug at Rozanov’s sleeve and the other’s attention shifts immediately. He laughs at the girl that approached him, responds in Russian, fast and easy, slightly turning away from Shane. Rozanov’s other hand still lingers on Svetlana’s waist. 

A strange, hollow feeling starts to spread through Shane’s chest as he feels himself dissolve into the noise around them, just another body in the room. 

He lets the motion of the crowd toss him around for a while as he tries to regain his composure. After a few minutes, he makes a conscious effort to seek out Radoslav and Volkin again, and he’s immediately glad he did. Volkin tries to tell them about the history of R&B, which is apparently the type of music that’s currently playing, but ironically it’s too loud for his story to really come across. Shane laughs anyway.

Daryana appears at Shane’s side and remarks that, “R&B is for dancing, so we must dance,” – and that is what they do. He feels a bit unsteady, but the others don’t seem to mind his obvious inexperience. Instead, Daryana tries to correct some of his movements, her hands are on his arms to put them in the correct position, and at one point they briefly land on his hips because apparently he’s too stiff there. She shows him how to spin her around and claps her hands when he gets it right. Shane feels silly but indulges her as best he can. 

Still, his gaze keeps getting stuck on Rozanov. His presence in this space feels larger than life and it throws him off balance. At one point, Rozanov steps through a gap between Shane and Daryana to get to Lipovsky, who’s talking with Volkin next to them. There’s a brief moment of eye contact, their arms brush and the contact leaves Shane’s skin tingling.

Valeriya appears with another tray of shots, and Shane’s hand twitches as she approaches him. Radoslav waves her off before she even has the chance to offer Shane a drink, and Shane is incredibly grateful for his friend, because there’s this impulsive part inside of him that wanted to take it in an attempt to distract him. It’s stupid, but there’s a voice telling him that maybe all of this would be easier if he were drunk. Volkin buys him a soft drink instead. 

He feels taken care of, and it makes him feel warm until it suddenly doesn’t. Then it only underlines how he doesn’t belong here. Shane needs to be managed while Rozanov handles himself effortlessly. 

While Shane is fighting to survive, Rozanov is thriving. He rules this environment the same way he rules the arena back in Moscow, king of the ice palace. Wherever Rozanov goes, he belongs. 

The empty feeling in his chest expands and expands and almost swallows him whole when Rozanov says something in Russian that makes everyone around him laugh. Shane plasters an automatic smile on his face, he doesn’t ask what it was and just lingers with the feeling of being in the room without being able to fully enter it.

No one notices him teetering at the abyss, and Shane doesn’t blame them. This is what their normal, everyday life is like. They’ve been dancing and drinking and he’s doing fine balancing on the edge. 

Except he slips up when his eyes land on Rozanov yet again. He’s talking to that girl again. Not Svetlana, but the one that tugged on his sleeve earlier. She’s twirling a strand of her dark hair and laughs at whatever it is he says. 

Rozanov’s right hand is on the small of her back, light and teasing but present enough to steady her. He’s speaking so close to her ear, his lips almost touch her skin. The look on his face is painfully familiar. 

He’s looking at her the same way he looked at Shane earlier.

He’s even touching her the same way he touched Shane earlier. 

So, Shane slips. The hollow in his chest becomes a vacuum, sucking in every sensation. The noise. The insistent press of bodies. Every bump feels sharp. The lights are too bright. They flicker too fast. The carbonation of his drink hurts his tongue. 

And the heat. The heat is getting unbearable. The borrowed shirt sticks to his skin. The air is almost too thick to breathe. He struggles to lift his sternum and inhale, working against the tight pull that is threatening to choke him.

He needs to get out of here.

Shane doesn’t tell anyone. It’s irresponsible. He knows that. But he feels like he’s suffocating. He doesn’t want to look at Rozanov again. He doesn’t want his friends to ask whether they should accompany him. Instead, he just heads for the corridor they came from. 

*****

It’s cold outside. Much colder than Shane had expected – or maybe it’s just that the club was too warm and now the contrast in temperature is hitting him hard. It’s a good thing, he decides, it’s grounding. The sweat that clings to him heightens the sensation and he closes his eyes to focus on the feeling of goosebumps spreading over his arms.

After a moment, Shane opens his eyes again, takes a few steps away from the club’s entrance and looks around. There are a few small, scattered groups of people, talking, smoking. His gaze ends up catching on one specific person though. 

Svetlana Vetrova is standing at the corner of the building, smoking like most other people out here. But instead of the entourage of girls she’d been dancing with, or any of the boys from the team, there’s a man standing next to her.

He moves toward her before he can think better of it.

The man must be in his late 20s, maybe even early 30s. Svetlana stands tall and proud, but there’s something about how closely her back is pressed against the building’s brickwork that just feels wrong.

As soon as he’s within earshot he calls out, “I’ve been looking all over for you!” 

The two of them turn their heads towards him, and there’s a twitch in the corner of Svetlana’s mouth that makes Shane feel like he did the right thing. She takes a step towards him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” she links their arms together and Shane tries his best not to stiffen at the unexpected physical contact. It’s not even uncomfortable, just surprising. 

The man’s confusion contorts into displeasure. He grumbles something in Russian, his voice sounds slurry. 

Svetlana leans further into Shane’s space as she addresses the stranger, “Я же тебе говорил, я здесь с друзьями. Уходи.” Her voice is firm and clear. The guy spits on the floor and rasps out what Shane knows must be an insult, but then turns to stagger off.  

A few moments after he disappears around the corner of the building, Svetlana lets out an audible breath and untangles their arms. She doesn’t say thank you, but Shane thinks the smile she gives him is grateful. 

They stand in silence for a few moments, before she opens her purse to pull out a cigarette and lights it. She holds it between her fingers the same way Rozanov does, and Shane’s gaze lingers on the dark red paint on her nails. When she pulls it away from her mouth to exhale smoke, there are traces of her equally red lipstick clinging to the filter. 

“Are you having a good night?” She asks him in a serious tone that doesn’t quite match the small smile still lingering on her lips. It makes Shane feel like she wants to hear the real answer instead of polite positivity.

“It’s…” Shane doesn’t quite know what to say though. He takes another second to think before starting again, “It’s been strange. I’ve never been to a club before, it’s so loud. Is it always like this?”

She nods, and he continues, “It’s been fun, but also just… overwhelming. I don’t really go out much in general, but some of the guys from the team here have been really… Nice to me.” He cringes a little. 

Shane doesn’t get a reply, at least not in the way he would have expected. There’s no pity, no pacifying, no uncomfortable follow-up questions. Svetlana seems to just accept his statements as facts, and instead changes the topic again. 

“Do you want to try it?” She lifts the cigarette towards him, and Shane realizes he’d been staring at it. 

“I’ve never, uh…” 

“Everything you do, you’ve done for the first time at some point,” she shrugs. 

Shane takes the cigarette from her. Awkwardly, his hand is a bit shaky as he holds it between his pointer and middle finger. Usually, he would be a little grossed out by the lipstick marks, but he’s been doing a lot of unusual things tonight already. 

Shane puts the cigarette between his lips and takes a careful drag. It’s a shallow inhale, probably less than half the smoke makes it to his lungs, the rest lingers in his mouth. The smoke tastes strange, acrid. It clings to his tongue in a way that feels agonizingly familiar.

Shane hands the cigarette back to her and Svetlana’s voice interrupts his thoughts before they can start dwelling on them. “My first club experience was also strange and overwhelming. Shall I tell you?”

Shane nods, and Svetlana starts, “So, I’m pretty sure this happened when I was 13… “ 

She speaks in a rhythm that makes it easy to pay attention and listen to her. There is something effervescent about the way she tells the story. When Rozanov’s name gets brought up, it doesn’t hit as hard as Shane would have expected. 

It’s actually kind of… sweet. Svetlana talks about how this boy had asked her out, a few years older than her. She was nervous because she’d never gone to a club before, so she asked her friends, Ilyusha and Sasha, to come with her. The other boy hadn’t been too happy with that, throwing a fit before they were even inside, even though there were other girls with him too – what a hypocrite. Things kept going downhill from there. 

“... and I don’t really know what happened then. The next thing I remember is that I was crouching under one of those bar tables and Ilyusha got me some water. I wanted to go home, but it took us so long to find Sasha! And then, on the way home, he threw up like three times! One of those on Ilyusha’s shoes,” she is laughing now, and Shane is chuckling along with her. 

Shane’s first night of clubbing suddenly seems like a total success by comparison. 

She offers him her cigarette again. It’s yet another situation in which he knows he should say no, but doesn’t. For the first time all night, it feels easy to just go with the flow. The drag he takes this time around is deeper. It scratches his throat, he coughs a bit as he exhales, then hands the cigarette back to Svetlana. 

******************************

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

Ilya spots them before they see him. His steps come to an abrupt halt as he takes in the scene before him.

Smoke curls in the air between them, catching in the orange glow of the street lamps. They’re turned toward each other, laughing. The tension Ilya had noticed in Hollander earlier is gone, as if it had never been there in the first place. Svetlana extends her hand towards him. Hollander takes the cigarette from between her fingers and smokes. 

It feels like a hallucination. 

Hollander doesn’t smoke. 

Hollander shoots Ilya dirty looks every time he catches him with a cigarette.

Hollander doesn’t smoke – or, he hadn’t. 

The thought sticks in the crevices of his brain like tar. Heavy. Irritating. Unnecessary. What happened to Hollander’s strict routines?

Ilya isn’t even sure what he’s doing here. He just noticed both Hollander and Sveta had disappeared, that’s all. It was obvious, really. They were there and then they weren’t, people shouldn’t just disappear without a word. 

That is all this is. 

And now he’s standing here with that strange, tight feeling in his chest again.

‘Don’t you want to share your new toy with me?’ 

Sveta’s voice echoes in his head as he watches Hollander lean in to hand the cigarette back to her. He’s smiling. Not polite. Not strained. He’s actually smiling. 

Her teasing feels a lot less funny now. 

The whole thing is ridiculous. 

There’s nothing to share or not share. It’s not like Ilya has any kind of claim to Hollander.

He’s annoyed with himself for even thinking of it at all. There’s nothing there. Ilya and Hollander compete on the ice, they fight, they make out about it. 

It isn’t special.

Ilya doesn’t need to get possessive. He doesn’t even need to try, there’s always people vying for his attention. Sasha should be back from Paris one of these days. Ilya could call him right now if he wanted to.

If Hollander wants to laugh with Sveta, that’s not Ilya’s problem. 

It’s just that something feels off about what he’s seeing. Similar to the way he’d noticed Daryana putting her hands all over Hollander earlier. The way she leaned in. The way Hollander had seemed unsure of what to do with her attention. Ilya hadn’t liked that either. 

But Daryana is Daryana. She’s careless. She doesn’t know.

Sveta knows.

She would never do anything to upset him. No one knows Ilya better than Sveta, and no one knows Sveta better than Ilya. If she’s laughing with Hollander, that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t mean anything.

It means nothing.

So why is Ilya still standing here?

Why is he cataloguing every detail, every movement? 

The way Hollander’s head tilts. The flush on his cheeks. How he runs a hand through his hair. How his fingers touch Sveta’s as he hands her the cigarette again. 

The anger wells up, sharp and solid. Easier to hold onto than whatever else he is feeling.  

In the club he knew what to do. Out here, he’s not so sure. He wants to punch something. Instead, he stands in the shadow of the building and watches smoke spill from Hollander’s lips. 

Hollander doesn’t smoke. 

Ilya steps forward. 

******************************

St. Petersburg, August 2007

“I leave you for 5 minutes and already you are corrupting him?” 

It startles him, Shane would recognize his voice anywhere. Rozanov sounds amused, and like he’s right standing right behind him. Shane freezes for a brief moment before he turns.

Something in Rozanov’s expression doesn’t match his tone of voice. He can’t quite put his finger on it yet. Rozanov’s features look sharper than they did earlier inside the club, and Shane is sure that it’s not just due to the different lighting.

Next to him, Svetlana rolls her eyes. “Oh please, he’s not that innocent,” she says with a laugh. The butt of the cigarette drops to the floor and gets crushed under her heel, “In fact, he insisted.” Shane doesn’t know if that’s a joke being made at his expense.

He can feel the guilt trying to creep in at the edges of his mind. How dumb. Shane doesn’t owe Rozanov anything, but the other boy is looking at him like he does.

“It’s just one,” Shane shrugs and lifts his gaze, but he keeps avoiding Rozanov.

Silence stretches for a beat too long before Rozanov chuckles and says, “I told you before, Hollander. Relax.”

That’s all it takes for his resolve to crumble under a sudden influx of curiosity. Shane meets Rozanov’s eyes now. Why is he here? Why is he standing so close? Did he come looking for Shane?

“Canada’s golden boy, not so strict now.” Shane can hear it in his voice now too. Something sharp and dissonant buried under the teasing tone. 

Rozanov holds Shane’s stare. 

Is he… ? 

No, Shane should know better than to project. 

Svetlana sighs dramatically before she speaks, interrupting the silence with a mischievous edge to her tone, “Suddenly you’re the strict one, Ilyusha.”

Shane can see Rozanov’s expression fall for the blink of an eye before he builds it back up. Before he can reply, Sveta continues, “It’s getting kinda cold here. Time to go back inside, I think.”

She takes a few steps and rubs her hands over her arms, “Come on now! You still haven’t danced with me, Shane Hollander!”

Something shifts. Shane doesn’t know what. Both he and Rozanov share another glance before they follow Svetlana back to the club.

Rozanov looks like he wants to say something.

He doesn’t.

The bouncers nod at them as they approach. The red rope in front of the door gets unclipped. Shane can faintly hear the beat of the music echoing from inside. 

Before stepping inside, he pulls his phone from his pocket to check the time.

A missed call notification lights up his screen. 

Chapter End Notes

I'm choosing to celebrate AO3 being up again by posting this chapter. Also, I'm starting to suspect that if I want to get anywhere with my thesis, I need to finish this fic and free up some brain space first. Wish me luck!

Writing this chapter made me curious as to what other people's teenage experience was like. Somehow my own memories make it look tame and messy at the same time. How many rules does the average teenager break?

 

My hometown hockey team has lost the last two games, but they're still clinging to the same rank for now. Their next game is on Wednesday, fingers crossed they don't mess up. I'm gonna admit, thinking about them makes me slightly homesick sometimes.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Missed calls always make my blood pressure spike. Prepare yourself for more (probably incorrect) hockey.

Heads up: A little later in this chapter there is a scene in which sentences spoken in Russian are italicized. Usually I'd go with actual Russian in scenes where Shane is within earshot, but here that would have felt like too much.

St. Petersburg, August 2007

It takes Shane a few seconds to understand what he’s looking at.

He’s rooted to the spot, a few steps from the club entrance. The music spilling out is faint, but Shane can feel the heavy bass vibrate through the pavement. He just wanted to quickly check the time, and now his heart feels like it’s dropping out of his chest. It’s 1:42 a.m.

Missed call (1): Mom

Voicemail (1): Mom

For a moment, Shane can’t do anything but stare. His surroundings blur together. The world narrows down to the bright glow of his phone screen.

He unlocks the screen and his finger hovers over the notifications. The call came in over an hour ago. Should he call her back? She only called once, maybe it’s nothing? (Please, god, let it be nothing.)

Shane closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then looks up. Svetlana and Rozanov are a few steps ahead, looking back at him with eyebrows drawn together. He clicks the voicemail notification and lifts the phone to his ear. 

Her voice comes through the speaker, crisp and controlled. 

“Shane. I know you’re not in your room.”

A pause.

“Call me. Now.”

The message ends. Shane slowly lowers the phone. 1:43 a.m.

The other two still haven’t said anything, they’re just watching Shane while he considers his options. He still feels oddly divorced from the rest of the world. Terrified, but steady. 

Should he call her back immediately? Should he tell the others?

He presses his lips together, then locks the phone and slips it back into the pocket of his borrowed jeans.

It won’t make much of a difference now.

Rozanov takes half a step towards Shane and tilts his head, “Problem?”

Shane feels observed. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“No.”

*****

The office space his mother occupies at the training compound is cramped. The room has no windows, the air is stale and the fluorescent lighting is giving Shane a headache. 

Yuna Hollander sits behind the desk. It’s busy but neat. Folders with game schematics, a stack of tapes, a carefully arranged pile of loose photos taken at the rink. Shane doesn’t dare look up at her yet. The atmosphere presses down on him. The lights hum overhead. Her disappointment is almost palpable.

She clears her throat, a signal for him to finally face her. Shane raises his head and looks just past her face to the left. 

Her voice is calm and measured as she begins to speak, “Yesterday evening, you told me you wouldn’t stay up late.”

A statement. A fact. Shane keeps looking past her, “I know,” he answers.

“You’ve never lied to me before.”

He doesn’t know how to interpret that, or what to say. Is it even true? Shane thinks of all the half-truths he’s hidden behind, how more and more have been heaping up lately. Does that make him a liar? A habitual liar? He never –

Her touch makes him flinch. 

His mother puts one of her hands over his where they’re clasped on the table. Shane has been picking at his nailbeds. It should be innocent, a thing she’s done a thousand times before, but it feels intrusive. 

She pulls her hand back when it becomes clear he has nothing to say. A sigh, disappointed but subdued, then, “You are here to play hockey, Shane. Not to get distracted.”

“I’m still playing well.” It comes out faster and sharper than he means for it to. There’s something welling up inside him at her insinuation. 

His mother doesn’t react and continues instead, “This isn’t who you are. Think of how this will affect your sleep schedule. During tournaments your training plan is already…”

Shane zones out.

This isn’t who you are.

It feels like something cracks inside of him.

The person in front of Shane is Coach Hollander, not his mother. This isn’t about how he did something dumb and potentially dangerous. She isn’t worried about her son. 

This is a coach, worried about a player’s performance. 

A manager, worried about a client’s image. 

“... which puts us in a difficult position. I brought you here specifically for this opportunity, but your actions have consequences. You will sit out the first period in the opening game on Wednesday.”

Shane blinks. “The first period?”

Her voice remains calm, “You broke curfew during an international event. That requires a response.” She pauses for a moment and then adds, “We will discuss other consequences at home. Hockey comes first.”

This isn’t who you are. 

Hockey comes first.

“You’re dismissed for now,” she states and proceeds to open one of her folders.

Shane leaves.

The crack inside of him remains.

******************************

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

Everything feels off. Ilya is exhausted, but he hasn’t slept all day. 

Earlier, Kharlamov gave him and the other guys a little speech. A reprimand for breaking curfew that wasn’t anything more than a formality, carried out to keep up appearances. Sunday is their day off. Ilya knows Kharlamov is used to stuff like this and doesn’t give a damn as long as it doesn’t affect their game. 

The Hollanders were notably absent.

But that was this morning and now it’s past dinner time and all Ilya wants to do is pass out. His mind won’t shut up though. He hasn’t really seen Hollander since they got back, and that was before sunrise. The way the other had acted at the club – Hollander had been different there and Ilya had felt some type of way about that. 

A type of way he has no intention of examining – except his brain refuses to drop it.

Ilya needs to sleep.

Which is why he grabs his running shoes and sets out on the long track that leads all the way around the large training compound and through a neighboring park. The rhythm of his legs hitting the ground, the changing sounds as he passes from pavement to asphalt to gravel. It’s something to focus on, and something to further exhaust himself with. At one point, the rest of his body will have to overwhelm his brain. Lights out. 

The park feels a little colder compared to the compound, where the concrete absorbs the August heat. Here, tall trees shade the many small, winding paths and everything smells of grass. Ilya is so focused on the sensory aspects of his environment, he almost collides with another person out for an evening run where two paths converge.

Of course it’s Shane Hollander.

Except as soon as Ilya takes a second to look at him, he realizes this is yet another different Shane Hollander. Not the one from the club last night, and not the one Ilya knows on the ice. It’s not the Hollander that lets Ilya provoke him in the locker room and then kisses him about it. 

The Hollander in front of Ilya right now doesn’t explode, defy or deflect. He simmers. Ilya sees it in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. Hears it in the way Hollander says, “Oh. Hey.” 

Ilya should probably give him a nod and move on. But there is this insatiable drive inside of him – this need to test and poke at every new version of Shane Hollander that he encounters. A magnetic pull between them that makes it impossible for Ilya to just leave things be. 

“You sneak out two nights in a row now, Hollander?” Ilya teases.

The reaction isn’t anything like what Ilya had expected. Not irritation and not dismissal. 

“Something like that,” Hollander grunts.

It’s unsettling.

They keep running. Every step makes it more obvious. Ilya has seen the way Hollander usually runs, and this isn’t it. 

This Hollander pushes. His breathing is rough. 

Too hard. Too fast. 

He runs the way Ilya does when he needs to get away from everything.

“You keep running like this, you will collapse,” Ilya says after a little while.

“Good.” 

That makes Ilya raise an eyebrow, he looks at the other boy, “Usually, you run smarter.”

Hollander exhales raggedly, “Usually.”

Another few strides pass. Ilya’s lungs are starting to burn. He just can’t let it be, so he keeps poking. “Coach Hollander was mad, yes?”

Hollander slows his pace, just a tiny bit. “... Something like that. I’m benched for the first period of Wednesday’s game.”

His tone makes Ilya look over again. It’s not angry. Not embarrassed. Just… something.

They run on. They round a bend in the path, the trees around them get thicker here. Then, Hollander stops. A few more steps to bleed off the momentum, and Ilya stops beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touch.

Neither of them speaks at first, just trying to catch their breaths.

Then Hollander finally looks back at Ilya. “Do you ever get tired of people deciding who you’re supposed to be?” He asks, like the words slipped out of his mouth before he could think better of it. 

It feels like Ilya’s been hit by a ton of bricks. He answers, “Not really,” but the insincerity in his voice must be glaringly obvious, judging by the expression on Hollander’s face.

“No?”

There’s a chill in the air. Here, the trees block out most of the light of the setting sun. Dark and green. The sound of thousands of insects buzzes in the background.

Hollander isn’t the only one wearing a mask. Ilya’s is different, but now it’s slipping all the same. There are a hundred things he wants to say, a hundred things he shouldn’t say.

“My father.” comes out of his mouth anyway. “Is different… but maybe… yes.”

Hollander’s eyes are wide, like he hadn’t expected an answer. Or at least, not an honest one. He doesn’t pry, just nods. 

They pick back up to finish their run. Ilya is surprised he doesn’t stumble with how off-balance he feels. They don’t speak again. 

Ilya is terrified of all the other things he might have said had Hollander asked.

*****

Monday seems normal on the surface, but something hangs in the air. Ilya doesn’t know how to look at Hollander. Hollander keeps his head down more than usual.

However, they can’t avoid each other forever. 

During the on-ice training session that afternoon, Ilya gets another glimpse at this new version of Hollander, from a different angle. 

Hollander’s plays are still perfect, measured and controlled like always, but he seems harder, sharper. Not just in the way he sometimes gets with Ilya, but on a more global scale. Less passive. There is an edge to the way he moves, an undercurrent of aggression that seems to suggest he is consciously starting to adopt parts of the team’s specific playstyle.

Ilya moves with him. Harder, faster, closer. Whether they’re pitted against each other or working together for a drill, it doesn’t matter. There is no need to think, Ilya’s body seems to know exactly what to do. 

He can see it on Kharlamov’s face when they take a short water break. The way Ilya and Hollander are in sync is undeniable. Ilya lets his gaze wander and – yes. Coach Hollander has taken note of it as well. 

When Ilya chirps at Hollander in the locker room afterwards, the only response he gets is sustained eye contact. The new Hollander. 

It’s dangerous. Ilya hasn’t figured out how to handle this version yet but can’t stay away either. 

Whatever this thing between them is, Ilya needs to be careful. He can’t risk letting it endanger his future again, the way he allowed when they fought on the ice and got suspended from practice. 

But the way they played today – maybe Hollander could be an asset instead of a threat.

That could work, right?

******************************

St. Petersburg, August 2007

The club, the run, and then practice today – Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself or how to act anymore. 

He also doesn’t quite know how to feel about his friends noticing.

“Okay, really. How bad was it?” Volkin asks while they’re sitting together for dinner, straight forward as always. 

A brief flash of panic runs through Shane at that. He hates open questions like this, the kind where he’s unsure what exactly is being asked in the first place. 

Next to him, Radoslav flinches a little, but then smiles at Shane, eyes soft and lips pressed together. “We know it must be tough, with your mom also being your coach and all that… and you seem a bit tense.”

He is grateful for the clarification, and weirdly relieved that the question is about his mother and not Rozanov. Not that they would have any reason to ask about Rozanov, right? Stop being so paranoid, Shane.

“I’m benched for the first period on Wednesday,” he just shrugs and looks down at his empty plate.

“For real?” Volkin asks. “That’s kinda weird, man. All we got was Kharlamov’s disappointment and promises of endless bag skates once we’re back in Moscow.”

Shane shrugs, trying for casual, “It could have been worse. I mean, I broke curfew during an international event.”

Radoslav nods slowly, “If you put it that way, I guess I get it. She could have benched you for the whole game, or sent you back to Moscow early.”

Volkin leans back in his chair and sighs, “I don’t know. Seems a bit unfair to me. But then again, Coach Hollander is kind of a hardass.”

Radoslav is pretty unsubtle as he lightly kicks Volkin’s shin under the table, “Don’t be rude.”

“What?” Volkin protests, “You know I’m right. Tell him, Hollzy!”

Shane can’t help but laugh a little at that. Instead of commenting, he says “Maybe we should have just gone to that other place you guys talked about?”

“What other place?”

“The weird one you mentioned on the bus,” Shane tries to recall the exact details, “The one with the synthetic music?”

Radoslav snorts at the way Volkin’s face scrunches up in response. “Post-soviet synth-punk, if you will,” he groans. 

“Same thing,” Radoslav interjects, and now it’s Volkin’s turn to try and kick him under the table.

“You heathen.” Volkin misses.

Shane laughs with them, and for a moment everything feels almost normal again.

“How about Hollzy kicks your ass at the foosball table to make it up to you?” Radoslav suggests with a grin, already getting up and stacking their empty plates to put them away.

“Not sure that’s how that works,” Volkin grumbles, “but I’m in if you are.” He looks at Shane then. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll kick your ass, if that will make you feel better,” Shane tells him.

As they’re about to leave the canteen to make their way to the foosball table in the rec room, Radoslav asks, “By the way, what was up at practice with you and Rozanov today?”

Shane tries hard not to let his smile drop. “I don’t know man,” he deflects.

Still, he can’t help himself. Shane briefly looks over his shoulder before they’re out the door. Rozanov is sitting with Galkin and Lipovsky as usual – and he’s already looking back at Shane. 

******************************

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

Speak of the devil and he shall appear – with a slight delay, it seems.

Ilya was right, Sasha is back from his European tour. And now he’s here, in St. Petersburg, sprawled over one of the ugly rec room couches like he owns the entire compound. 

“I leave the country for a month,” Sasha says, spreading his arms dramatically, “and you idiots immediately start causing trouble.”

He has his long legs in Ilya’s lap and his head leaned against Sveta’s shoulder, and gets jostled a bit as Sveta snorts, “You heard already?”

“Oh please, Dad wouldn’t shut up about it.” Sasha rolls his eyes, then nudges Ilya, “He says you’ve been playing like a mad man though, so I don’t think he minds too much.”  

It almost feels normal.

Almost.

Across from him, Sveta is watching.

Ilya shrugs, but something in his chest tightens. 

“How come you’re here anyway? Thought you were gonna arrive back in Moscow?” He changes the subject before they try to get any further into hockey and the way he’s been playing lately.

“What?” Sasha clutches his chest in mock offense, “Can’t I come visit my dear father after being away from him for so long?”

Ilya is pretty sure that if Coach Kharlamov was on fire, Sasha would think twice before trying to put him out. 

Sveta has the same thought it seems, “Yeah right. I think you just missed us.”

Sasha leans back and tilts his head to kiss her on the cheek. “The two of you being here is a lovely bonus, I’ll give you that.” He presses his legs against Ilya’s a little harder, “But enough about you – let’s talk about me! Mom’s new guy has this absolutely insane place in Paris, and the two of them left early for their trip to Monaco, so I had it all to myself last week. You won’t believe how many… “ 

Everything is exactly the same as it has always been. 

Which should probably make Ilya feel better.

******************************

St. Petersburg, August 2007 

The past two days have felt strange, like Shane’s been left in suspense of something unknown. He’s relieved by the time Wednesday arrives and they get back on the bus to travel across town for the expo tournament. Maybe a change of scenery will shake the feeling loose.

The hotel they’re staying at for the occasion isn’t anything special, but the bed in his room has a proper mattress and Shane’s spine is cheering. He’s in a single, being the odd one out as a semi-unexpected addition to the team, and he is endlessly grateful for it. Shane had a moment of panic at the thought that his mother may insist on rooming with him. He knows she’s been watching him even more closely than usual after what happened during the weekend. 

However, there isn’t a lot of time for him to enjoy the bed and, even more importantly, the privacy. Their first game is this afternoon, leaving Shane with just enough time to unpack his bags and use the restroom before they’re off to the rink for warm-ups. 

The arena is larger than Shane expected, especially for what was supposedly just a “friendly exposition tournament” between a handful of junior teams. The visiting locker room feels the same as visiting locker rooms everywhere though. Cramped and blank. In the end, Coach Kharlamov didn’t accept Volkin’s petition to change the goal song for the expo, but he’s determined to make up for that by taking over as the locker room DJ. Shane wonders which of the songs he plays might be ‘post-soviet synth-punk’. Probably not the Britney Spears one that’s currently on.

Shane is fastening his pads when Radoslav approaches him, flanked by Volkin and Lipovsky. 

“So, Hollzy,” he begins with a grin so wide, Shane immediately feels slightly uneasy. His movements falter, but his friend continues, “You’re on the roster, so you’re officially part of the team – right?”

“Uhm. I mean, technically, yes.” Shane responds, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. 

All three boys in front of him nod sagely. Then Radoslav goes on, “Official members of the team can’t play in unnumbered practice jerseys, you know? It would make things too difficult for the refs and announcers.”

Before dread can fully rise up in Shane at the possibility of not getting to play after all, a small bundle of cloth is thrust toward him. 

“Official team members get official team jerseys!” Volkin yells out excitedly as Shane takes the item in hand and unfolds it.

It’s a white jersey with red and blue detailing on the shoulders. In the center front there’s a red star, underneath which it says ‘ЦСКА’. 

Shane presses his lips together. He takes a deep breath and then he flips it to the other side.

The fabric rustles in his hands.

The back says ‘Холландер 24’ in bold red lettering.

For a moment, Shane just stares at it.

He isn’t sure how to react. Suddenly there’s a lump in his throat. 

Shane puts the jersey down on the bench next to him as he gets up. 

A moment of hesitation, and then he throws his arms around Radoslav in what is probably a very clumsy attempt at a hug. Radoslav’s shoulder pads dig awkwardly into Shane’s chest.

Radoslav doesn’t seem to mind. He laughs and hugs Shane back. 

Volkin and Lipovsky immediately pile in as well, arms wrapping around both of them until it turns into a loose, awkward group hug.

It feels warm. Solid.

Shane knows his eyes are a little wet but none of them mention it. Lipovsky just gives his shoulder a quick squeeze before stepping back. “Welcome to the team,” he says. Then they all go back to dressing like nothing unusual just happened.

*****

Warm-ups go well, nothing special really. They’re up against another Moscow junior team, and most of the guys know each other. Lots of chatter crosses the red line in the middle of the rink, some friendly and some not so much. Shane can feel the eyes on him.

The curious looks remain as Shane stays benched for the first period, as promised. 

He keeps his face blank. 

Volkin blows him a kiss from the crease. 

Rozanov is still the starting center, curfew broken or not. Their eyes meet briefly as he lines up at the face-off circle. Shane already knows exactly how he’ll move once the puck drops. He’s right. 

When it’s time for Radoslav’s first shift, he gives Shane a sympathetic look before vaulting over the boards.

Frustration burns hot in Shane’s stomach. 

His eyes follow the puck the entire time. Rozanov scores off a pass from Galkin within the first 5 minutes. Tóth rings one off the post. The right winger of the opposing team manages to score on Volkin. Abramov gets into a fight with another defenseman and both of them end up in the box with 5 minute major penalties. 

The first period finally ends with a 1:1 score. The 18 minute intermission that follows feels like a personal insult to Shane. 

When he finally gets ice under his skates in the second period, his mind clears. Shane is on the second line with Tóth and Sokolov and they work together seamlessly. Every face-off he takes, he wins. Shane scores with a satisfying slapshot, then gets crushed into the boards by the other team’s massive right winger.

It earns the other guy a penalty and the CSKA team is on the power play. Which means that for the first time since the game started, Rozanov and Shane are on the ice at the same time. 

Rozanov taps Shane’s shin pad with his stick as he skates past him.

Shane doesn’t look back. He knows where the other boy is lining up. He can hear him breathe. 

Shane takes the face-off and swipes the puck left toward where Rozanov is already moving before the opposing center even gets his stick down. The other team’s defense puts up a good fight but they can’t keep up with the speed for long enough. Shane passes again, and Rozanov scores with 20 seconds left on the power play timer. 

Lipovsky is celebrating harder than strictly necessary, but it makes Shane smile. This feels good, electric enough to almost make him forget all the strange mental stuff going on with Rozanov. The physical side of whatever is going on? That works. 

That isn’t a distraction.

That’s fuel.

*****

The thing with Rozanov makes Shane fly on the ice and weighs him down off it.

He’s not sure how the penalty box fits into that. 

What he does know is that on Thursday, during their second expo match, he ends up there alone with Rozanov on overlapping penalties. Roughing for Rozanov, tripping for Shane.

They’re sitting closer than is strictly necessary. Or maybe Shane is just imagining that. The glass muffles the sounds of the arena just slightly. 

Panting. Sweating. Adrenalized. 

Rozanov’s breathing sounds like he’s right next to his ear. He can smell the sweat over the scent of the ice. Their sticks touch.

Shane doesn’t know what to do with the silence all of a sudden. “You play like you have something to prove,” he says without turning to Rozanov. 

“So do you.” 

The crowd roars around them as Volkin catches the puck out of the air. Cold air rolls over the rink. Their knees are almost touching. 

Shane is hyperaware of the heat coming off Rozanov through his gear.

Until they actually do touch. 

Shane isn’t sure if he moved, or if it was Rozanov. 

Neither of them says anything else. 

The moment is volatile. It makes Shane’s heartbeat speed up. 

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and only lasts for a few seconds. 

Then the ref signals that Rozanov’s time is served. 

Rozanov jumps over the boards. The air feels just a little colder. Shane exhales.

Only once Shane’s own blades scrape over the ice again does he feel steady. 

This is where he belongs.

Not sitting still in a plexiglass box with Rozanov.

*****

A knock sounds at Shane’s hotel room door. It doesn’t wake him. 

Shane isn’t sleeping, even though he knows he should be. The clock on the night stand reads past midnight and his brain won’t shut up. Briefly he wonders whether he should just stay in bed or not, but if someone comes to his door at this hour, it might be important.

He half expects it to be his mother, checking in after he’d snuck out on Saturday. It isn’t.

When Shane opens the door, Ilya Rozanov is standing in the hallway. 

… What?

Shane blinks. Once. Twice. Maybe he did fall asleep after all.

“Can I come in?” Rozanov asks, and Shane is still so perplexed by what is happening, he steps aside without really thinking.

Rozanov moves into the room past him. By the time Shane has gathered his wits enough to close the door again, he turns to find Rozanov sitting on the edge of his bed. Shane suddenly feels embarrassed that the bed is unmade. Of all the things to notice.

He lingers by the door, and Rozanov just looks back at him. After a few more moments of silence, Shane sighs and moves toward the bed. He stalls for a second before sitting down, aware of how little space there is between them.

His mind is racing now, even more so than before. Shane is only in his underwear and a worn sleep shirt. And Rozanov is right next to him, in soft sweats and a tank top. His hair looks ruffled, messy, like he’d been lying in bed before coming here.

There’s a lock on the hotel room door. 

They’re sitting on a bed together.

Alone.

… Is that what this is?

Or is it something else?

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on Shane’s part.

He tries to bury the thought.

Then, finally, Rozanov opens his mouth. When had Shane started staring at him like that? “Things are so different,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Yeah,” Shane mumbles after a moment of hesitation. He can’t exactly put his finger on why or how though. 

Rozanov shifts, Shane feels the weight of the mattress dip. “In the box. Thought you were going to –”

“I didn’t,” Shane cuts him off. Then mentally kicks himself. 

What didn’t you do, Shane? 

Pull away? Lean in? 

Kiss him?

Something about the expression on Rozanov’s face makes Shane think he’s not entirely sure what he was going to say in the first place. And Shane doesn’t know what he’s answering. 

Instead of trying to figure it out, Shane leans in closer. Their shoulders touch. Rozanov’s right hand rests on the mattress, next to Shane’s thighs. His fingers twitch.

The silence is heavy but comfortable. The increasing gravity makes it feel like they’re slowly sinking into each other. Closer and closer still. 

Then his leg touches Rozanov’s hand. 

Shane goes for it.

He leans in with his face, slowly. 

Rozanov leans in as well, until there are just a few inches between them.

Shane watches as Rozanov licks his lips. He can feel the other boy’s breath against his mouth, warm and steady. 

There is no interruption this time.

No zambonis or phone calls or teammates in the hallway. 

And there is no panic either. Shane doesn’t feel like he needs to run this time. 

It hurts more than he’d ever admit. It hurts so fucking much – but Shane pulls away before their lips can touch.  

He thinks Rozanov looks like it hurts him too. 

The space between them suddenly feels enormous.

But then Rozanov bites his lip and nudges their shoulders together again. As if to say that it’s okay.

There’s the final game tomorrow.

There’s so much weight to everything.

Too much.

Shane’s warm where their shoulders touch. Rozanov makes him feel like he doesn’t have to explain himself, like he doesn’t have to say anything. It’s exactly why Shane wants to, why he feels like he can.

“Two more weeks after this,” he breathes into the space between them. 

After another moment, the corners of Rozanov’s mouth tilt up, just slightly. His smile is small and private, like it belongs only to Shane. That one’s definitely wishful thinking, but he can’t help himself.

Rozanov gets up slowly. He hesitates at the door. 

“Get some sleep, Hollander,” he says before he slips out into the hallway. He pulls the door closed behind him. 

It’s dark and so much quieter now as Shane drops back onto his bed. Unseeing, he stares at the ceiling. His confidence wavers. Shane isn’t scared but… 

Was that the right thing to do?

Was it too forward? 

What if it changes everything?

… Should he have just kissed Rozanov?

Shane touches his fingers to his lips. 

He was so close.

It takes him a while, but eventually he does fall asleep.

******************************

Санкт-Петербург, Август 2007

The next day, Hollander isn’t exactly avoiding him, but he’s not seeking Ilya out either. Never any closer than is absolutely necessary. Ilya doesn’t move toward him either. It makes him feel restless, a little irritable. 

He’s so used to being wanted. The whole thing feels suspiciously like rejection, and Ilya hates that he cares. He doesn’t understand why.

Ilya tries to hide it, but as soon as he sits down at the breakfast table, he can tell Sveta notices. She always does. It’s starting to get extremely annoying. Her eyes flicker over to where Hollander is sitting, then back to Ilya.

Ilya makes the mistake of looking too. 

Hollander is staring at his smoothie like it personally offended him.

Sveta doesn’t say anything, but the message in her eyes is clear. 

Sasha, thankfully, is less observant. He’s telling them about how one of the players on the Nizhny Novgorod team, which they’re playing in their final game this afternoon, tried to come onto him at the hotel bar last night. 

“I would never tell, of course,” he drawls, “but he was just too obvious! I’m surprised the other guys from his team didn’t notice. I guess that’s straight guys for you, huh? Maybe if he were a better center, I’d consider it.” Sasha nudges his foot against Ilya’s under the table. Ilya keeps himself from pulling away, but he doesn’t press back either. Sasha adds, “No clue why they put that guy on their first line, really.”

Sveta chuckles, “But you’d never tell, of course.” 

Sasha grins back, bats his lashes. “Exactly. Just like I won’t tell you that his twin sister is here to watch him play today, and that she’s definitely the better flirt out of the two of them. Too bad her brother’s team will lose.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Ilya grumbles. He realizes too late that he said it out loud and finds his two friends are staring at him with wide, questioning eyes. 

“What’s with the lack of confidence today?” Sveta probes.

Sasha shrugs it off, “I don’t know what you’re worried about, Ilyukha. You killed it in the other two games. Plus, I know dad’s putting you and that Hollander kid on the same line today.” Ilya’s fingers tighten around his fork. “As much as I hate to admit it, there’s no way in hell you will lose.”

Ilya clenches his teeth and nods. He takes a moment to compose himself, putting on a smile as he replies, “Fuck yeah, you’re right.”

After eating, before they part ways, Sveta leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“For luck,” she winks at Ilya. 

Sasha laughs, and does the same. His lips feel soft against Ilya’s face. 

Ilya suddenly wonders who might be watching.

“Good luck,” Sasha grins, before Sveta pulls him away and Ilya is left to go find his teammates to make his way to the arena with them. 

*****

It feels like an absolute gut punch when Kolya skates up during warm-ups and asks, “You good?”

Sveta noticing is one thing. But this is clearly going too far. Ilya tries and fails not to sound defensive as he responds, “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kolya shrugs, lifts his hand placatingly. “Just checking. I know switching up line compositions can be weird. I’ll admit, I slightly mind being pushed down to the second line thanks to Golden Boy over there,” he jerks his head toward where Hollander is stretching next to Tóth. “But as long as we beat Nizhny, I’ll be great. Can’t wait to fuck them over after how dirty they played last season.”

Ilya still hasn’t gotten used to seeing Hollander in the official CSKA jersey. His name in cyrillic and the big red number 24 stand out against the white. 

It looks good on him.

The thought catches him off guard.

Kharlamov calls him over before he can dwell on it. He goes through some passing drills with Hollander and Kirya before the start of the game.

Ilya circles near the blue line, collecting a loose puck. Hollander is positioned on the other side.

For a second Ilya considers passing to Kirill instead. 

Then he snaps the puck toward Hollander, who catches it cleanly without looking up.

It’s the smarter play.

After the drill, Hollander glides past Ilya on his way toward the bench. For a second their helmets are almost touching.

Ilya catches the glint in his dark eyes through the visor and follows. They stop side by side at the boards while the next line rotates in. Their shoulders bump lightly. When Ilya reaches back to grab his water bottle, his eyes land on Sveta, watching him from the stands.

She’s leaning against the railing, arms crossed, wearing the same intense expression she always gets when she’s about to watch a hockey game. But there’s something else in it, too. She narrows her eyes at Ilya. He turns to look away. 

Ilya squeezes the bottle harder than necessary and squirts water into his mouth. It does absolutely nothing to settle the restless energy buzzing under his skin. At least he’s hydrated. 

Hollander has moved a few meters down the ice to do some final stretches before the game starts. It’s something he’s done for the past two games, too. Even the first one, when coach Hollander had benched him for the first period. Ilya won’t pretend he doesn’t have his own superstitions and rituals – he’s a hockey player after all – but it’s satisfying to clock other people’s.

Kharlamov’s whistle rings in his ears. “Стартовая пятёрка, на лёд!” his coach yells. 

Ilya watches as other players clear off the ice and pile onto the benches. Kirya skates up to Hollander and says something to him. A translation, maybe. Not that Hollander seems to need it. It’s almost like on the ice, the language barrier stops existing for Hollander.

Ilya tosses his water bottle back over the boards and moves to line up at center ice. 

Kirya gets into position to his left, Hollander to his right. He hears Kirya tap his stick once against the ice. Hollander shifts beside him and taps twice. The starting center for Nizhny Novgorod lines up across from him. The ref prepares to drop the puck.

Ilya makes eye contact with the other center, then flicks his gaze over to the stands where Sveta and Sasha are sitting. The other boy’s eyes follow his. 

“Sasha said to tell your sister he says hello.”

Ilya wins the face-off. 

He sends the puck over to Kirya and bursts forward. Hollander is already moving down the ice ahead of him. They cross the blue line before Nizhny’s defense has a chance to react. Ilya cuts toward the boards, drawing one of the defenders with him.

He doesn’t even need to look. 

He knows Kirya passes to Hollander, and Hollander handles it flawlessly. 

Ilya shakes the defenseman just as the puck lands against his blade. Kirya cuts between him and the other team’s right winger. Hollander is exactly where he should be. He catches the puck in stride and snaps it toward the net.

The goalie barely manages to deflect it with his pads. The rebound skitters wide.

“Здорово!” Kirya shouts as they circle back.

Nizhny Novgorod is a good team. Still, things only get worse for them from there on out.

Hollander steals the puck in the neutral zone and immediately sends it forward. Ilya catches it cleanly and cuts toward the slot. The same defenseman as before lunges for him – he’s still too slow. The puck slides back across the ice, and Hollander is already there. 

The shot rings off the post.  “Боже…” one of the Nizhny players mutters as he skates past Ilya. 

From the boards, Kharlamov claps his hands once. “Again!” he shouts.

Near the end of the period, the puck ends up with Hollander again. Ilya is already accelerating down the left wing before Hollander even looks up. He hears Hollander’s stick hit the puck and feels it slide perfectly onto his own blade.

Two of the Nizhny players are coming for him. Ilya dekes left toward Kirya. Then cuts right and shoots.

The goalie dives and blocks it, just barely. 

The rebound is weak. Hollander is already in the crease. All it takes is a flick of his wrist to send the puck through the gap between the goalie’s pads and the ice. 

The ref blows his whistle, and Ilya comes to a stop next to Hollander. Wordlessly, they bump their gloves together. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Kirya’s loud cheering sends them toward the bench. 

Kirya nearly tackles them when they reach the bench. “Наконец-то!” he shouts, grabbing the back of Ilya’s helmet before shoving Hollander’s shoulder for good measure. “You two are insane today! Like reading minds!”

“Nice one,” Kolya adds from where he’s leaning over the boards. He nods once at Hollander, grudging but approving. Hollander only shrugs and reaches for his water bottle. Ilya sits down beside him, pulling his helmet off just enough to wipe sweat from his forehead. His pulse is still hammering.

“Good shot,” Hollander says, briefly glancing over.

Ilya snorts, “Good goal.”

*****

The next period feels trickier. Nizhny wins the face-off and comes hard into their zone. Their first line moves faster, cycling the puck along the boards with practiced precision.

Kolya blocks one shot. The next one whistles past the post. The third forces Volkin to freeze the puck.

Ilya leans forward on the bench, elbows on his knees. “Они просыпаются,” Kirya mutters beside him.

Halfway through their line’s next shift, the ref points at Ilya. “Блокировка! Две минуты!” the ref shouts. 

It’s absolute bullshit. Ilya throws his head back in disbelief but skates to the box anyway.

Hollander glides past him on his way to the defensive formation. He raises an eyebrow at him and nods his head towards the winger Ilya allegedly interfered with. 

Ilya shrugs.

The penalty box always feels much smaller from the inside. He leans forward to watch the penalty kill unfold. 

After a few moments, the door opens and Hollander drops on the bench next to him. 

It’s Ilya’s turn to raise a brow, “What happened?” he asks.

“Hooking,” Hollander replies. He’s biting down on his lower lip like he’s trying to suppress an expression. 

Ilya tries not to grin, and for a moment neither of them speaks. Then Hollander says quietly, “Worth it.”

Ilya huffs out a laugh and knocks his shoulder into Hollander’s. When he pulls back again, they’re sitting closer. Their knees are touching again. 

Hollander doesn’t pull away this time. 

Instead, he presses back against Ilya with a small smile. 

*****

The third period drags longer than it should. Nizhny Novgorod refuses to fold. They score once early, cutting down Moscow’s lead. The arena grows louder. Nizhny’s first line presses hard after that, forcing Moscow back into their own zone more than once.

Five minutes left on the clock.

Hollander steals the puck along the boards in the neutral zone. He pulls it away from one of the opposing wingers and quickly accelerates up the ice. Ilya pushes off immediately, skating hard down the middle lane.

One defenseman drops back to cover him. The other moves toward Hollander.

For a second it looks like Hollander might take the shot himself. Instead, he cuts sharply toward the boards. The defender follows. Hollander nods at Kirya, subtle but apparent enough to draw the attention of the player covering Ilya.

Ilya knows that’s his opening.

He bursts forward toward the slot. Hollander is still looking at Kirya. The puck slides off his stick a heartbeat later, right onto Ilya’s blade.

Perfect.

The goalie lunges forward, trying to close the angle. Ilya fakes the shot once, just enough to make him drop.

The puck hits the top corner of the net so hard it rattles the frame.

The sound cracks through the arena. 

Everything goes quiet for a moment.

Then the noise crashes down all at once.

Kirya barrels into him first, shouting something unintelligible in his ear. Hollander arrives a moment later. He doesn’t say anything. Just bumps his glove once against Ilya’s. Harder this time.

Then they skate back to center ice to reset for the face-off. 

Nizhny Novgorod doesn’t manage to even out the score in the remaining 3 minutes.

*****

By the time they reach the locker room, Kirya is already halfway out of his gear and yelling across the room. “Я же говорил!” he shouts, pointing dramatically between Ilya and Hollander. “Mind reading!”

Abramov throws a roll of tape at him, rolling his eyes.

“Shut up,” Kolya says, but he’s grinning.

The room is filled with yelling, the smell of sweat and rubber. As soon as Volkin is through the door, he turns some music on. Somehow, he’s managing to dance while stripping out of his pads.

Kolya leans back against his stall, towel around his neck. “Seriously Ilyukha,” he says, “What the hell was that tonight?”

Ilya looks up from where he’s unlacing his skates, “What?”

Kolya nods his chin in the direction of the rink, “That last goal? You didn’t even look back. I thought for sure Hollander would pass to Kirya.”

Kirya immediately jumps in, “He never looks! Neither of them ever looks!”

“Because I don’t have to,” Ilya shoots back. He keeps his voice even and drops his gaze back down to his laces.

“Yeah,” Kolya says dryly. He looks across the room where Hollander is neatly stacking his gear. “Freaky.”

Kharlamov steps into the room then, saving Ilya from further questions. He claps his hands once and the chatter dies down. Volkin dives across the room to lower the volume of the music. 

“Хорошая игра,” he says simply as he surveys the room. “продолжай играть в том же духе.”

His gaze seems to catch on Hollander, then shifts to Ilya. It lingers for a few seconds before he leaves again. 

*****

Later, after a bunch of speeches that Ilya wasn’t listening to, they’re out to celebrate. Dinner, and drinks for the staff. Family members of some of the guys who came to cheer them on are mingling with the team. He’s pretty sure that’s one of Tóth’s younger brothers advertising himself to Kharlamov as a future addition to their roster.

Sveta has his arm hooked around his as she takes a sip of her drink. Ilya is pretty sure there’s more than just coke in the glass. A bunch of the guys are crowded around them, the way men always seem to do when Sveta shows up. 

“I still can’t fathom how you pulled off that last goal,” Sasha leans against him. 

Sveta nods, “Interesting line chemistry tonight,” she says with a sly grin, and Ilya wishes he could flip her off without drawing too much attention. 

“I don’t get it either, and I was right there!” Kirya yells out. He hasn’t shut up about it since the moment they stepped off the ice. “You guys don’t understand!”

Kolya steals the glass from his hands and tells him, “Stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic! Did you see that pass?”

Kolya rolls his eyes, “We all saw it, it’s just hockey. Calm down.” He takes a sip off Kirya’s drink and makes a face. 

“That wasn’t just hockey,” Kirya insists, “That was telepathy!” 

Sasha snorts. 

Ilya sighs, “Please, shut up.”

Kirya huffs and turns more toward Ilya, “Oh, fuck off! You guys didn’t even look!”

Kolya smirks, “They never look.” Kirya looks offended. 

Sveta’s voice cuts through their banter. 

“Shane Hollander!”

The crowd parts in the direction she’s looking. 

Ilya is pretty sure that if anyone here has psychic powers, it’s Sveta.

Across the room, Hollander looks up. His eyes are wide at first, but then he nods back at Sveta. He excuses himself from whatever conversation he was having and steps towards their group.

“How did you pull it off?” Sveta starts again once Hollander is a little closer, effortlessly switching from Russian to English. “Ilyusha won’t tell us, and Kirya is accusing you of witchcraft.”

Hollander settles into the little circle they’ve formed, across from Ilya and Sveta. He tucks his hands into his pockets. 

“Witchcraft?” he repeats.

Kirya points triumphantly. “See! Not denying it!”

Hollander glances at Ilya briefly before looking back at Sveta. “It’s not that complicated,” he says.

“Then explain it,” Sasha prompts.

Hollander shrugs, “We both just skate where we’re supposed to.”

Kirya throws his hands up. “That’s not an explanation!”

Kolya sighs. “Kirill – пожалуйста.”

“Нет, послушай!” Kirya insists, pointing between Ilya and Hollander again. “Hollander passed before Ilyukha was even there!”

“Just sounds like anticipation to me,” Sasha says with an airy laugh and rests his arm on Ilya’s shoulder.

Kirya squints at him. “Is suspicious!” he keeps insisting.

Sveta untangles herself from Ilya and takes a step back to study him and Hollander. Her eyes move back and forth between them. They settle on Hollander when she slowly says, “So, you just… know where he will be.”

Hollander’s gaze flicks to Ilya again, then back to Sveta. “Something like that,” he says with a carefully guarded expression. 

Ilya enjoys the attention more than he probably should. Hollander’s eyes are dark when they meet Ilya’s, whereas it almost seems like he’s staring past Sveta when he looks at her. 

After a moment, he manages to shake the feeling. “Was great goal. Now we talk about something else.”

Kirya shakes his head solemnly. He leans toward Sasha and lifts his hand conspiratorially. “I’m telling you,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear anyway, “they’re wolves.”

“What?” Sasha asks with an amused expression.

“Wolves hunt like this,” Kirya explains confidently.

Kolya groans and drags a hand over his face. “Please control your line mate,” he says to Ilya.

“What? He is also your –,” Ilya stops himself.

Across from him, Hollander looks like he’s trying not to smile.

Kirya is in the middle of his next explanation about wolves and their hunting patterns when someone across the room shouts his name. He disappears into the crowd immediately, dragging Sasha along with him. Their little circle dissolves after that.

Kolya mutters something about getting another drink and wanders off. Hollander gets pulled aside by his mother before Ilya can say anything.

A moment later, Sveta wraps her arm around him again. She leans her head against his shoulder. 

“So,” she starts.

Ilya freezes for a heartbeat. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No to whatever you’re about to say.”

Sveta takes a slow sip of her drink, her eyes landing on Hollander across the room. “Very interesting rivalry you’ve got there, Ilyusha.”

Ilya nearly chokes. “Fuck. Off.” He bites out. 

She turns to look up at him then. “He really is incredibly good,” she continues, ignoring him completely, “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look at anyone like that before.”

Ilya opens his mouth. 

Nothing comes out.

He shuts it, then tries again.

“Weren’t you listening to Kirya? We famously didn’t look at each other.”

Sveta sighs, but then smiles into her glass.

*****

It’s past midnight when they finally pile onto the bus again. 

This time, Ilya doesn’t sit in the back row. Instead, he drops into the aisle seat directly across from Hollander. Kolya gives him a look as squeezes by to sit down in the window seat next to him. He doesn’t say anything though, and Ilya is too tired to care.

Ten minutes into the ride, only a few of the guys are still quietly talking. Most of the team is slumped in their seats, full of food and alcohol and the exhaustion that follows a win. 

The lights are dimmed.

Ilya sinks deeper into his seat and stretches his legs into the aisle. Next to him, Kolya is snoring softly. A few rows behind him, Kirya has finally shut up about wolves.

Across the aisle – Hollander is already looking back at him.

Ilya is suddenly very glad Sveta is spending another night in St. Petersburg with her cousins. And that she dragged Sasha with her. 

Neither he nor Hollander move. They don’t speak.

Ilya doesn’t look away until exhaustion finally forces his eyes shut.

The bus hums quietly around them.

Two more weeks.

Chapter End Notes

Isn't it terrible when feelings get involved? I started this story off hot and heavy, and now these two idiots can’t even manage a kiss.
All I want to do is smash my two barbies together and make them smooch. Instead here I am, suffering for my art.
I mean, obviously I have the power to change that. But also... I love the awkward tension.
Two more weeks for these two to figure their shit out.

You may also have noticed that the total chapter count went up. There are too many things left for me to say, I couldn't possibly cram them all into one chapter.

 

My home town hockey team is desperately clinging to their current spot in their league's rankings. They're only one point ahead of the next team ranked below them.
I have no stakes in this, except I'm horribly invested. Home team's next game is on Tuesday, against the current #1 team. The suspense is already killing me.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Summer camp's over and the clock is ticking.

It's been a minute so maybe check the tags and warnings, just to be safe.

Москва, Август 2007

Sveta returns to Moscow Saturday night, and Ilya is already more than sick of his family after having just spent the day with them. He’s incredibly tired. Sleeping on a bus isn’t exactly restful. But he’d rather stay awake another night than sleep at home when there’s alternatives.

Ilya knows things might get a little tense with Sveta at first. She’s been asking so many questions and he’s been blowing her off. Still, late Saturday night he closes the door to her room behind him and drops down onto the bed next to her. Her suitcase still hasn’t been unpacked. 

For a while, they just sit next to each other. The room is quiet except for the sound of traffic drifting up from the street.

“You’ve been off recently,” she starts, studying him. Ilya tries not to react. “It’s entertaining –  but not for the usual reasons.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Sveta rolls her eyes. “Yes you do. We talked about this. And after the expo this week? The way the two of you were just so in sync? – I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Ilya has no idea how to process what she’s saying. “It’s just hockey,” he mumbles. 

“I know you don’t believe that. You’re usually a better liar.” Sveta stretches her legs and lets her gaze swipe over her room for a moment before continuing, tone steadier, “The thing with Hollander – I thought you two would fuck and then move on.” 

He looks down at his hands instead of at her, “That was the plan.” 

Sveta considers him for a moment.

“But clearly that’s not what’s been happening,” she determines. Her tone is careful, a little softer now as she asks, “What is going on, Ilyusha?”

Ilya purses his lips, clenches his teeth and says nothing. 

“You didn’t even really try to flirt with anyone the whole time we were in St. Petersburg,” she presses on, a little more agitated by his silence.

“So?”

“Ksenya was all over you when we were at the club!”

“I thought you didn’t want me fucking your cousins?”

“That’s not the point!” Sveta is raising her hands in frustration now, “The point is you wouldn’t usually care! And it’s not even the only thing. I saw what you did when Daryana was dancing with Hollander,” she drops her arms again. Her eyes are pleading.

But Ilya says nothing in light of her accusation. Denying it feels useless, Sveta knows him too well. 

Sveta sighs and shifts on the bed. She pulls her knees up to her chest and then, more quietly, she says “Ilyusha – You even turned me down.”

That makes him raise an eyebrow. Ilya knows it’s a cheap shot, a shitty attempt at a deflection, but he still responds “So this is all because you’re jealous?” 

“No,” she sighs again and presses her fingers to her temples. She sounds exhausted. “I’m just saying, you’re different and it’s clearly connected to the thing with you and Hollander.”

“There’s no ‘thing’,” Ilya hisses and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Ilya!” – she never calls him that unless she’s really frustrated – “It’s not a bad thing! This isn’t me criticizing you!” 

Sveta closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“This is me. As your best friend. Asking you to please tell me what’s going on.” 

The hurt in her eyes makes Ilya’s breath catch in his throat. The anger and the confusion he can deal with. 

But Ilya never meant to hurt Sveta. 

His nails dig deep into his palms.

*****

Sunday dinner is always the same. 

White tablecloth, polished silverware. His father sits at the head of the table, reading the newspaper. A very likely flavorless meal prepared by Polina is laid out in front of him.

Andrei’s girlfriend is the only one who looks up as he enters. Ilya wishes she didn’t.

He sits down in the same worn chair as always. Polina carries one last big pot to the table and then dinner begins. Somehow, the soup is always just lukewarm. 

“You were playing like you’re entertaining a crowd,” his father addresses him after a few minutes. The distaste in his voice is clear. He doesn’t tell Ilya he watched the expo tournament, he’s only here to critique. 

“Hockey is not a circus,” his father’s nose crinkles in disgust. Next to him, a slow, satisfied smile starts to creep over Andrei’s face.

“Nizhny Novgorod’s forwards were disciplined. You rely on luck. You waste your talent.” The implications are clear. Ilya is undisciplined. Ilya doesn’t put in the effort.

Andrei clears his throat, “Maybe if you hadn’t taken so many penalties, you could have been more useful.” – Ilya is not useful, is what his brother means. 

“Tell me something,” his father puts down the newspaper then, “Why does that Canadian look like the best player on your line lately?”

When Ilya doesn’t respond immediately, his father keeps piling on, “He did not even earn his place here, and now you not only let him outshine you – No! You spent the whole tournament setting him up.”

The disgust in his voice is clear. “Is that your role now?”

Andrei sighs, “Letting some foreigner outshine you in your own country,” he shakes his head, “That is embarrassing.”

Ilya stirs his soup once, twice, then shrugs. “No set-ups, no goals. I still outscored him overall.”

“By one point,” Polina scoffs, she sounds almost amused. 

His father hums. “It’s time you become serious, if you want any future in this sport.”

******************************

Moscow, August 2007 

Shane spends the entire time between arriving back in Moscow Saturday morning and the team’s next practice Tuesday evening losing his mind. 

Or, almost the entire time, almost losing his mind.

After two weeks away, first the training camp and then the tournament, he is exhausted. But no matter what, the sound of blades on the ice ringing through his head doesn’t soothe him. Instead, it makes Shane feel restless and twitchy, like he needs to move. 

On top of that, it feels like his mother’s eyes are on him every second of every day, from the moment they both get off the bus. Even now, in his room, he feels like she might knock at any moment.

Two weeks of intense training. Two weeks of getting closer with his new friends. Two weeks of starting to slowly defy his mother for the first time ever. 

Two weeks in close proximity with Ilya Rozanov and somehow Shane still managed to do absolutely nothing about it.

Shane is pacing around the bedroom. Runs his hands through his hair and tugs. 

At some point in the past, he would have considered this a good thing. A solid end to whatever the strange experimentation between them had been. – But right now, all Shane can think about is how he should have kissed Rozanov when the other boy came to his hotel room. 

Shane tried so hard not to think about it while they were in St. Petersburg, constantly surrounded by teammates and staff and his mother. But now he is alone. It’s like a dam breaks. The cracks have been forming all summer, and now the flood rushes over him and tears him down.

Rozanov’s sly, crooked smirk. 

His big, calloused hands. 

Rozanov stretching his long limbs before practice.

The way his body moves on the ice. 

Shane flops down onto his bed. Groans. 

Rozanov out on the restaurant patio, smoking and calling Shane pretty in a way that felt teasing but not insulting. 

Rozanov in that club, the center of attention. Rozanov outside the club, his attention on Shane. 

The way he had looked at Shane in the park the next day. 

He presses his face into the pillow and almost screams.

Playing against him, playing with him.

The constant proximity.

The entire month of July.

The bathroom and the quiet yelling and the kissing. His fingers on Shane’s thighs. How Shane wished, still wishes, it would have lasted longer. 

The way he had wanted more.

He rubs his hands over his eyes. It doesn’t help disperse the mental images. 

It doesn’t make the feelings go away either. 

The tournament. The rush of power and how light Shane felt playing with him. Every tiny moment in between. 

The penalty box.

And the stupid, stupid hotel room where Shane pulled away instead of leaning in to close the gap. Where he should have made a move and taken what he wanted. 

Instead of finding every excuse not to. 

Instead of being a coward. 

The winning goal.

Rozanov’s blue eyes under the dimmed lights on the bus. 

Two more weeks and that will be it.

Shane isn’t sure what it all means. He’s not sure he wants to know. 

What he does know is that he wants more. He is still curious about so many things and summer is almost over.

Then he can leave it behind and focus on the future, on his real life. 

Shane has to get it right. 

*****

A plan ends up falling right into Shane’s lap when during dinner, his dad clears his throat and sets his fork down.

“I’ve spoken to the attaché of the Sports Ministry again, over the phone earlier,” he starts, “They look forward to welcoming us in Sochi next week.” He is smiling at Shane’s mother now.

Shane’s dad, David Hollander, works for the Canadian government under the Secretary of State for Sport. His job is the reason Shane is in Moscow in the first place. Earlier this year his boss launched a joint sports research project between Canada and Russia. When the Olympic Committee officially awarded the 2014 Winter Olympics to Sochi in July, the invitation for his parents to visit the site followed almost immediately.

His mother takes a moment to smile back at her husband. “I almost forgot about that,” she says then. “Is the plan still to leave Friday night?”

Shane’s dad nods.

“And you’re sure Shane can’t just tag along?” she asks and lets her gaze drift over to Shane. It feels sharp. 

His dad sighs, quietly, “No dear, I’m sorry. I checked again earlier, but they’re not able to accommodate him.” A brief pause, then, “I know you are worried. And for the record, Shane,” his bright eyes land on his son, “I agree with your mother, sneaking out was irresponsible. I get it, you want to be part of the team, hang out with your new friends. But think of all the things that could have happened! A club is no place for a 16-year-old.”

The contrast feels like a slap to the face. Shane’s dad’s concerns are so different from the ones his mother had voiced. 

“Still,” his dad turns back to Yuna, “I’m convinced Shane will learn from his mistake.”

She considers it for a long moment. The way she sits perfectly still while doing so feels unsettling. “You are grounded while we are gone, Friday night to Monday morning,” she finally says to Shane. “No friends, and no going out except for exercise.”

Shane nods. He wouldn’t exactly call Rozanov a friend.

*****

The rink smells the same as always – cold air, wet ice, the faint adhesive scent of fresh tape. Voices yelling in Russian. Two weeks in St. Petersburg, and the Moscow Ice Palace remains the same.

Lipovsky and Galkin are chirping at each other in the locker room when Shane enters. He’s not sure what exactly they’re saying, but he’s pretty sure Galkin calls the other an idiot, and Lipovsky throws one of his knee pads at him. Rozanov uses his height to his advantage and lightly smacks their heads together, ending the argument. They’re laughing. 

The ice under his skates soothes him. It’s Tuesday, and Shane’s mind hasn’t shut up the entire weekend and all of Monday. Here he can let everything else go and just focus on the puck.

Practice fits into the same familiar mold that Shane has gotten used to over the summer. They warm up, Volkin and the other goalies try to taunt the skaters into stretching more. 

Kharlamov’s whistle echoes through the arena. 

Shane feels off anyway.

Coach Kharlamov immediately pairs Shane with Rozanov for their first round of corner rush drills against Abramov. While Shane had decided that Abramov is a grade-A asshole from pretty much the first day they met, he’s also an excellent defenseman. 

They’re assigned a corner and his mother is there, watching and critiquing the play. 

It feels strange, she’s avoided situations like this since they came to Russia.

“Ready.”

The puck touches down and Shane pushes off immediately, skates biting into the ice. Abramov is already in position near the net, stick low and shoulders square.

Shane picks the puck up along the boards and feels Abramov move to try and redirect him. Okay then.

He swipes the puck behind the net without looking.

Rozanov is already there to receive it.

Of course he is. 

Shane changes directions, the puck lands back on his forehand before Abramov manages to close the gap. The puck easily flies into the empty net. 

“Again,” his mother calls. 

The three of them loop around to reset in the same corner. 

This time around, Abramov adjusts. When Shane tries to shoot the puck across the slot, Abramov’s stick cuts him off and sends it crashing back into the boards.

“Again.”

The puck drops into the corner for the third time. 

Shane reaches it first and turns with it. Abramov shifts with him, ready to force him out of the slot again. For a split second Shane thinks about circling him. 

The cuts toward the goal instead.

Abramov follows.

The puck lands on Rozanov’s stick, without Abramov even noticing.

Then in the back of the net. 

From the boards, Lipovsky hoots and whistles – then seems to think better of it and begins to howl.

“Wolf pack!” He yells, pumping his fist in the air. 

Shane skates past Rozanov on the way back to the corner where his mother is already waiting with the next puck. Rozanov bumps his shoulder lightly as they pass.

Neither of them says anything.

Shane’s head is finally, blissfully quiet.

There’s only the ice. The puck. 

And Rozanov exactly where Shane expects him to be. 

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

Khalamov’s final whistle ends today’s practice. 

Feedback on today’s drills has already been handed out. But Ilya lingers, circling the net with a puck, while most of the other players move towards the locker room.

Across the ice, Hollander is talking with his mother, tension visible in their shoulders even from a distance. Hollander keeps shifting his weight from one skate to the other, like he’s impatient. Ilya carves a figure eight into the scratched up surface of the ice, paying extra attention to how he shifts his weight on his blades. 

For a while, he gets lost critiquing his own edgework. He lifts one leg off the ice, then the other. Accelerates and turns sharply without sacrificing too much speed or losing balance.

When he looks back up, Hollander is still near the other goal, maneuvering a puck between a handful of others set down as markers. 

Coach Hollander is gone.

Most of the team is too. 

Ilya watches the other boy for a few more moments before he steps into the tunnel.

The locker room is almost empty by now. Volkin, Marchenko and Fedorov are still busy packing up their goalie gear. Ilya puts his stick away, then sits down in his stall. He slowly starts pulling off his jersey and his pads. 

Kirya and Toivanen are leaving the showers as Ilya enters. Kirya, shithead that he is, pauses the quiet conversation between them to bark at Ilya. He doesn’t even bother trying to hit him with his towel the way he usually would. 

Steam still hangs in the air. Ilya lets the water run over his head and shoulders. He considers turning the dial hotter, then shakes his head. Not necessary. Not yet.

By the time he returns, the locker room is completely empty. Ilya puts his clothes on, but leaves his bag where it is. Out in the hallway, he can still hear someone moving over the ice. He turns the other way and moves down the familiar corridors to where the vending machine stands. 

Ilya runs into their equipment manager on the way. Zhukov’s cousin. They nod at each other, don’t speak, and move on. 

Coins go in the slot. His fingers press ‘2’ then ‘4’. The rumbling lasts ages before the can drops into the dispenser slot. The coke is warm, like always, and Ilya pockets it as he leaves the building. He missed this little ritual. 

It’s still light outside, there is a slight chill in the air despite the heat the August sun has baked into the concrete under his shoes. Ilya lights his cigarette, then cracks the can tab. He closes his eyes for a deep inhale, and takes a sip of his drink. Then slowly, Ilya begins to walk down the path back to the player entrance.

By the time he arrives, he’s finished his cigarette, but not his coke. He pushes through the door, down the corridor to the locker room. The sound of skating has been replaced by the whirring of the ice resurfacer. 

Inside the locker room, Hollander is tying his shoelaces. 

His eyes briefly rest on Ilya before he looks down at his feet again. 

After a short pause, Ilya moves across the room to sit down on the bench in front of his stall next to Hollander.

The other boy finishes tying his shoes, but doesn’t look back up yet as he mutters, “You stayed late.”

Ilya shrugs and takes a sip from his can. “You did too.”

Silence. Then Hollander shifts closer, finally looking over. 

There is something shining in his eyes. Hollander’s hair is wet and pushed back, like he’d run his hand through it. His freckles stand out against his lightly tanned skin. He’s regarding Ilya closely.

Then Hollander says, “I saw you practice your edgework.” His eyes remain on Ilya.

Ilya takes another sip, then licks over his lips. Hollander’s eyes flicker. “I saw you too. Stickhandling. Is because Abramov cut you off in the corner, yeah?”

Hollander looks caught, then strangely pleased. “He ended up overcommitting in the end.”

Ilya nods in agreement. 

The silence feels charged.

Hollander doesn’t look away. Ilya doesn’t either.

He keeps eye contact as he finishes his coke and then sets the empty can down on the bench with a metallic click. 

A few more seconds tick by. Hollander’s gaze feels like a physical thing to Ilya, steady and searching. 

Ilya knows where this is going.

It appears Hollander finds what he is looking for. Before Ilya can even blink, Hollander is in his lap, knees bracketing Ilya’s hips. 

Hollander hesitates and bites his lips, but Ilya won’t be leaning in. Not this time. Instead, he quirks an eyebrow up at Hollander, who is now towering over him. Ilya can’t help the way the corners of his mouth lift though. 

Slowly, Hollander leans in.

His mouth feels soft against Ilya’s. With the gap between them now closed, Ilya pushes back. It’s not frantic or angry this time. The kiss is almost chaste, until Ilya can no longer resist the urge to run his tongue over Hollander’s lips. Hollander opens his mouth for him with a small, satisfied noise. His fingers slide into Ilya’s still-damp hair. 

Ilya’s hands land on Hollander’s thighs, and the other boy quietly moans into the kiss. 

He presses his hands into Hollander’s skin just a little harder.

Hollander gently bites down on Ilya’s bottom lip and tugs. One of his hands traces the curve of Ilya’s jaw, then tilts his head back. The kiss deepens. Ilya leans back against the stall and pulls Hollander with him, bringing them even closer together.

He’s not surprised when they hear a door slam down the hallway. 

Hollander sighs. Their lips part, breaths still mingled. 

Ilya considers just ignoring it. Instead, he gives Hollander’s thighs another squeeze, then pulls his hands back. 

Hollander’s eyes are shut, he takes another deep breath. As he opens them, he shifts his weight to sit back down next to Ilya. A respectable distance between them, but still close enough to Ilya’s skin to prickle. 

Not a second later, the locker room door swings open. Both of their heads turn at the same time.

Tóth steps inside, muttering to himself in Slovak. His train of thought seems to get cut off as his eyes settle on Hollander and Ilya. 

His eyebrows lift. “Oh,” is all he manages to say at first.

Ilya doesn’t move, still leaning back against his stall. Beside him, Hollander straightens a little.

“Forgot my charger,” Tóth exhales a breath he had apparently been holding. After another moment, he moves toward his stall, rummaging through his belongings.

“You two are still here?” he asks casually. “Practice ended a while ago.”

“Lost track of time,” Hollander mutters.

Tóth triumphantly holds up a cable and proceeds to stuff it into his bag. 

“Practicing the telepathy,” Ilya says when Tóth doesn’t move and remains looking at them.

It makes Tóth chuckle. Ilya can practically feel Hollander roll his eyes next to him. 

“Don’t overdo it,” Tóth says, still grinning, “You both still have to be able to sync up with other people once summer’s over.” 

He moves to the door, “See you guys!”, then he’s gone again. 

The locker room falls quiet again.

The silence stretches for a bit, then Hollander lets out a short breath. “That’s twice now.”

Ilya snorts, “Tóth has very bad timing.”

They smile at each other. Hollander is doing that thing where he bites down on his lip to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting too far up. 

Then Hollander gets up, grabbing his bag from the floor. He slings it over his shoulder and hesitates for a moment.

“I’m home alone this weekend,” he says.

Ilya tilts his head and gives him a questioning look.

Hollander swallows, then, “You could come over. On Saturday.”

It’s Ilya’s turn to try and control his facial expression. He’s probably not much more successful than Hollander had been. He hadn’t expected this part.

After another beat, Hollander pushes the door open and disappears into the hallway. 

Ilya remains sitting on the bench for a little while, grinning at the empty coke can beside him.

******************************

Moscow, August 2007

Shane is permitted to have lunch with Radoslav – under much stricter conditions this time around. They meet at noon at a cafe near Shane’s apartment, and he’s expected back there no later than 2 p.m. 

Radoslav had asked him about Rozanov and the locker room. He managed to tell him that they were “Feedbacking each other on the drills earlier.” It wasn’t technically a lie, but the entire situation had made his blood pressure spike. 

Shane’s been back home for half an hour and his heart still feels like it’s beating too fast. 

He’d really done that. He’d really asked Rozanov to come to his place on the weekend. 

… Now what?

Oh god, now what?

What is Rozanov expecting will happen?

… What is Shane expecting will happen?

… What does Shane want to happen?

It feels like he doesn’t have anywhere near enough data or reference points to even begin figuring out the answer to that question.  

It takes him a few moments to calm down enough to get up off of his bed. His mother is in the living room, watching a recording of last year’s Olympics. The women’s hockey gold medal game, Canada vs. Sweden. 

“Is it okay if I take the laptop?” Shane asks, hoping his voice doesn’t falter. 

His mother doesn’t turn around, completely focused on the screen. Still, she responds, “It’s on the kitchen table. Put it back once you’re done.”

Shane beelines to the table, snatches the laptop and its charging cable, then dashes back up the stairs to his bedroom. 

The internet connection is slow. The search engine takes forever to load. 

Once again, Shane is weirdly grateful to the one guy in his homeroom who showed them all how to delete the browser history during a free study period.

The search engine finally loads. Shane stares at the blinking cursor for a few moments. Then he types: “NHL lockout 2004”. The page loads slowly, line by line. He clicks on the first link, waits a moment and then hits the Back button. 

His fingers hover over the keyboard for another moment. Slowly he types “sexual orientation definition” into the search bar and hits Enter. One of the first entries that appear is a Wikipedia page. The article opens with a block of text that feels like it was written by a committee of scientists. It’s comforting.

“Sexual orientation refers to a pattern of emotional, romantic, or sexual attraction to men, women, or both sexes,” the first line reads.

Shane leans in closer to the screen. His eyes briefly flicker to the door. Still closed.  

His eyes catch on the word “pattern” as he re-reads the beginning of the article. Pattern implies repetition. Consistency. Reliability. 

He scrolls down further, another paragraph loading. The major categories on the page appear to be heterosexuality, homosexuality and bisexuality. 

Okay. Seems straightforward enough.

For a moment, Shane stops and considers. 

He hasn’t ever actually had sex with anyone – right? The stuff with Rozanov doesn’t count as that. Sure, it was definitely sexual but… not actual, real sex. 

Shane tries to remember what his teacher told them during health class, but the memory is vague and fuzzy. 

Anyway, Rozanov is just one person, that can hardly count as a pattern. 

Patterns require multiple data points.

And Shane currently has… what? Zero. Zero confirmed events. 

Maybe half an event, at the most. 

He shifts and leans back against the headboard. 

From a statistical standpoint, it would be wildly irresponsible to draw conclusions from a sample size of zero.

Shane clicks on a link that leads to another Wikipedia page, “Kinsey scale”.

It takes a while to load. When it finally does, a numbered list appears.

0: Exclusively heterosexual

1: Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual

2: Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual

3: Equally heterosexual and homosexual

– Shane stops reading after that. Predominantly heterosexual sounds… reasonable. A one is basically a zero with some statistical noise.

He reads on. The scale goes all the way to six, which seems excessive. Shane closes the tab and returns to the search engine. 

He hesitates. The cursor blinks. He wonders if he should create another alibi search term. Does it really matter?

Shane takes a deep breath and types out, “situational homosexuality”.

The page loads. There’s a Wikipedia article titled “Situational sexual behavior”. He clicks on it and reads slowly. 

“Situational sexual behavior is sexual behavior of a kind that is different from what is usual for that person (or from what that person normally exhibits) due to a social environment that permits, encourages, or compels those acts.”

Environment. That makes sense.

The article lists examples. Prisons. Boarding schools. The military. All kinds of places where people are separated from the opposite sex for long periods of time.

Shane shifts against his pillow.

Hockey camps probably count. 

Actually, when you really think about it, elite sports make for extremely unusual social environments. – Constant travel, locker rooms, high emotional intensity. 

It would be surprising if nothing ever happened there, really. 

Still, Shane can’t picture any of the other guys on the team kissing each other.

Further down on the page he finds a passage that reads, “Some people change their sexual behavior depending on the situation or at different points in their life. Experimentation of this sort is more common among adolescents and young adults, both male and female.”

Experiment. Shane has thought about it like that before. He feels confirmed.

Experiments are controlled. Temporary.

Experiments produce data. You try something, you observe the results, you move on based on whatever data you gather.

Shane starts to pick at his nailbeds. He is a teenager. Sixteen, an adolescent. The article says experimentation is practically expected at that age. 

He clicks through a few more links. The bottom line appears to be that such experimentation does not necessarily determine long-term sexual orientation.

Shane exhales slowly. 

Right. Exactly. That’s the whole point. It’s just… data gathering. It doesn’t determine anything. 

And that means… 

That means whatever happened between him and Rozanov so far…

Or whatever might happen this weekend…

It doesn’t automatically mean anything about the future. All of this is temporary. 

Shane looks up at the ceiling for a long moment. The soft hum of the laptop fan fills the room. 

He nods to himself. Being curious isn’t the same thing as being gay.

People are curious all the time. That’s human nature.

Scientists are curious. That’s how research works.

Shane closes the tab and opens the browser history. 

Before he can move to delete it, his eye catches on the “Sexual orientation” page again. 

… Sample size zero. 

… But what if the stuff that he and Rozanov have done actually does count as sex?

Cold sweat starts to form along his hairline. 

He goes back to the search engine. Shane looks up at the door once again before he types out “virginity”.

The text on the page flickers briefly as it loads. The Wikipedia definition tells him, “Virginity is a social construct that denotes the state of a person who has never engaged in sexual intercourse.”

The word “sexual intercourse” is highlighted in blue. Another link. 

Somehow, this one feels scarier than the others. 

After a solid five minutes of overthinking, Shane clicks it. 

He only skims the page, “Sex [...] is an intimate social activity typically involving the insertion of the erect male penis inside the female vagina and [...] other forms of penetrative sex [...]”

– That’s enough.

Shane shuts his eyes, pressing his lids together hard. Focuses on his breathing for a while. 

… 4 seconds to inhale… 7 seconds to hold his breath… 8 seconds to slowly exhale…

He navigates back to the browser history window and deletes all the entries that come after the “2004-05 NHL lockout” entry. 

Then Shane closes the laptop. 

His heart is still beating a little too fast when he sets it aside.

Saturday is just an experiment.

Nothing more than that.

The hypothesis testing. 

Temporary environment. Temporary behavior. No long-term implications.

The only variable Shane can’t quite account for is Rozanov himself.

Future Shane can deal with that confounder later.

Present Shane just needs to run the experiment. 

… It’s probably perfectly normal for experiments to make you feel nervous three days in advance.

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

Ilya loves the chaos that is the locker room. Especially before a game, but also before regular practices such as today. The energy, the noise, the bodies around him, it gets his adrenaline pumping in the best way.

Sticks clatter against the benches, someone is arguing loudly about last night’s football match, and Kirya is already laughing about something stupid.

Out on the ice, Ilya’s gaze catches on Hollander, who is stretching near the boards. 

Saturday…

Once the team is complete, Kharlamov blows his whistle and rounds them all up for the first drills. They’re doing 3-on-3 small area scrimmages, and Kharlamov starts dividing them into different lines. 

When his eyes land on Ilya, something that could almost pass for a smile creeps across his otherwise permanently frowning face. He signals for Hollander to come closer.

“You two work very well together. Now we see if you still know how to work against the other,” the head coach grunts out and – yes, that is definitely a smile. Sly, and small. 

Behind him, Zhukov barks out a laugh, “No friends on the ice!” It draws the attention of the rest of the team. Someone behind him is whooping (very likely Kirya), and someone else says something about getting popcorn.

Hollander looks indifferent to the line change, his usual mask perfectly in place. 

Vlascenko directs their equipment manager to drag out extra nets, two get placed facing each other between the original goal line and the blue line, just behind the face-off circles. The coaches set them up with the same line compositions they used in the first two tournament games last week. Ilya with Kirya and Kolya, Hollander with Tóth and Sokolov. Marchenko and Volkin man the goals. 

As soon as they start, Ilya manages to pick up the puck pushing it towards the opposing goal. Sokolov starts closing in on Ilya, but Kolya skates by him, offering up the perfect opportunity for a pass. It should be perfect – except Hollander appears seemingly out of nowhere to intercept it.

Ilya pushes off the ice and toward him. He checks Hollander along the boards as they battle for the puck, but Hollander manages to pass it to Tóth at the last second. Tóth takes a shot at the goal, Marchenko deflects the puck with his pads. 

Ilya missed this, and now simultaneously kind of loathes it. Playing against Hollander is still a rush, the same way it had been from the first practice onwards. But it’s like they’re almost too in sync now. Ilya knows where Hollander will show up, and the other way around. It makes for a frustrating drill and they probably go a lot harder than strictly necessary. 

Kharlamov’s whistle shrieks, “Again!”

A new puck skitters across the ice before anyone has even properly reset. Kirya gets to it first this time, sliding it along the boards and then passing to Ilya. Ilya cuts down the ice toward the center between the two goals, but Hollander is on his heels immediately. Of course he is. 

Ilya squares up to push past him, Hollander matches the movement. They bump into each other hard, their shoulders grind together for half a second longer than necessary.

“Так медленно,” Ilya mutters in Russian.

“Stop whining,” Hollander replies. 

They bump into each other again, and Hollander manages to angle his blade just right to knock the puck loose and down the ice. For a moment, it bounces uselessly between Kirya, Kolya, and Sokolov, three sticks clacking together in a messy scramble. Hollander and Ilya both hang back, watching. Then they move at the exact same moment. 

The puck slides free and Tóth scoops it up. Ilya is already there to block the slot. 

Tóth’s shot goes wide, past the outer corner of the goal.

Another whistle. Another puck.

No rest. The drill resets instantly.

Hollander is on the puck first. He circles around the imaginary net line, scanning for an opening. Ilya cuts off his passing lane to Sokolov. 

Their eyes meet.

Hollander accelerates and Ilya reacts instinctively, crowding him against the boards. The collision is hard enough to rattle the glass. 

“Careful,” Hollander says under his breath.

“You started it,” Ilya shoots back.

Someone on the bench lets out an excited “Ooooh!”

Hollander’s mouth twitches like he might laugh.

The puck is loose between their skates, and both of them stab at it with their sticks until Ilya manages to hit it down the ice toward the goal. Kirya winds up for a quick shot. Volkin deflects it with his stick and sends it back down the ice, to the point it almost reaches Marchenko and the other goal. 

The whistle again. 

Turn for the next line now.  

Ilya skates toward the bench for a quick sip of water. Kirya skates up beside him, and Ilya instantly knows he’s about to say something stupid, just by the look on his face. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Kirya asks. “Это как заново переживать развод родителей!”

Ilya rolls his eyes, “Заткнись и катайся на коньках.”

Their next turn comes far too soon. Things keep going the same way.

Ilya blocks Hollander’s passes. Hollander steals the puck. Quick shots back and forth between the six boys on the ice. Marchenko and Volkin seem to be having the time of their lives, at least.

At one point Hollander drives Ilya into the boards just a little too hard after the puck is already gone. Ilya shoves back. 

Kharlamov whistles sharply and yells, “Play the puck!”

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose. His pulse is hammering. The contact, the speed, the constant back-and-forth with Hollander – it leaves him buzzing.

Across from him, Hollander looks exactly the same as always – focused, controlled, face blank. But when their eyes meet for a moment, Ilya sees the same thing he feels. 

The challenge.

The thrill of it.

One day they’re going to play this game for real.

Ilya can’t wait to beat him.

******************************

Moscow, August 2007 

His parents are out the door again almost immediately after Shane and his mother return from practice Friday evening. His mother bids him farewell with a, “Remember, you are grounded,” while Shane’s father gives him a smile and whispers, “Have fun,” before pulling the door closed behind him.

Earlier, in the car on their way from the ice palace to the apartment, his mother had asked him how he felt about playing against Rozanov again, instead of with him. Shane had told her, “Great,” because he knew that’s what she wanted to hear.

Now that he’s alone in the apartment, he actually tries to take some time to think about it. It’s true, it did feel good. Fun. Like a real challenge – more so than even the expo tournament somehow.  

But there is a certain undercurrent of frustration there. For all of Rozanov’s talent, and their effective collaboration previously, Rozanov is still one of those types of players Shane usually hates. It showed in practice today. Rozanov is showy and arrogant. He takes unnecessary risks. He plays far more physically than he has any right to, and – and this is what actually slightly terrifies Shane – he manages to pull Shane into it with him. 

Shane, who usually avoids chirping and fighting on the ice like the plague. (His mother’s voice echoes through his head, “You are held to higher standards.”) 

There’s no one else who makes him lose his composure the way Rozanov does. 

There’s also no one else who challenges him and makes him a better player the way Rozanov does. 

It’s all just terribly confusing.

And tomorrow is Saturday.

Rozanov had never actually given him an answer on whether or not he would come over.

… Does Shane still want him to come?

… Maybe it would be better if he didn’t?

… Does Rozanov even know where Shane lives?

The sharp scraping noise of skate blades crawls through his head. 

Shane can only really answer one of those questions. He still wants Rozanov to come to his place. It’s more difficult to admit why he wants it – but that isn’t the question now, is it?

Shane doesn’t have time for questions like that anyway. He glances around the apartment.

He should probably clean up around here. 

And maybe it would be good to look a few more things up after all. 

Just in case.

*****

Mid-afternoon on Saturday, a sharp knock frees Shane from his latest thought spiral. All the concerns and the voices quiet down into nothing.

Shane gets up from the couch and moves toward the front door to open it.

Rozanov is standing in the hallway with his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. His hair looks a little darker, slightly damp from a shower. The short curls stick to the back of his neck.

For a moment neither of them says anything.

“You found the place,” Shane says.

“Wasn’t hard.” Rozanov steps past him into the apartment like he belongs there.

Shane is fairly certain he never told Rozanov where he lives. Radoslav knows, and so does Volkin, but that’s it. He narrows his eyes as he considers the other boy, now standing in the entrance way.

Rozanov is looking around. His gaze briefly lands on the coat rack, then the art on the walls, before moving on. 

Shane knows the contact details of all the guys on his team back home. Or at least, he has access to them, as their captain. Did… did Rozanov look him up?

Rozanov chooses that moment to disrupt Shane’s thoughts by unceremoniously dumping his bag on the floor next to the door. “Parents are gone for the afternoon?” He asks, voice even.

“They’re gone the whole weekend,” Shane replies. 

He’s suddenly overly aware of how small the entrance space is. Rozanov is close enough, Shane has to slightly tilt his head back to look at him.

And Shane does. Look at him. 

Rozanov’s eyes are on Shane as well. The lighting here is too dim to make out the small speckles of green and gold in his irises. 

Or maybe Shane just needs to get a little closer –

“Do you want something to drink?” Shane is already moving down the hall to the kitchen before Rozanov can answer.

He hears shuffling before Rozanov’s steps pick up to follow him.

Once in the kitchen, Shane circles around the kitchen island and opens the refrigerator. He stares at the contents for much longer than necessary, especially given the fact that he knows exactly what there is. 

“We have water, orange juice, or –”

Rozanov steps into the kitchen behind him. The space immediately feels smaller. Shane takes a moment before he turns to face him.

“– or Coke,” he finishes his sentence after a significant pause.

Rozanov raises one of his eyebrows and looks at Shane.

… He doesn't know, right? There is no way Rozanov knows. But then why is he looking at Shane like that? There is no way Rozanov knows that Shane went to the supermarket this morning, specifically to buy Coke. 

Because he’s seen Rozanov drink it at the rink a few times now. 

Because Shane is a good host. 

Rozanov takes another step closer and Shane’s heartbeat speeds up even more. He lifts his hand and reaches forward – 

His fingers brush against Shane’s arm as he reaches into the fridge behind him and pulls out one of the red cans.

“Coke is good,” Rozanov hums, still standing way too close.

Shane can smell his bodywash. Or maybe his shampoo? His gaze flickers to the damp hair at the nape of Rozanov’s neck again. 

Shane very slowly grabs one of the water bottles from the fridge for himself. He closes the refrigerator door. 

Then he steps aside and finally exhales. 

The can hisses as Rozanov opens it. 

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

The Coke can pops and sizzles.

Ilya takes a sip and watches Hollander exhale like he’s just escaped from something. This Hollander is different from the one Ilya dealt with on the ice yesterday.

He leans against the kitchen counter and watches as Hollander pretends to read the label on his water bottle. Which is written in Russian. Ilya knows the brand. He’s not sure whether Hollander can read cyrillic letters in the first place. 

Still, Hollander keeps looking down at the bottle, fiddling with it. 

Ilya shifts just a little closer. He notices the way Hollander’s eyes flicker toward him for a second.

“You are staring,” he says, trying not to sound as smug as he feels. 

Hollander blinks at him. “I wasn’t.”

It’s a lie. Or rather, a half-lie. But Hollander seems like the type to take things literally. 

Ilya hums and lightly shrugs his shoulders, “Is okay,” he says.

Hollander’s eyes track the movement, and Ilya can’t help but smirk slightly.

It hangs in the air between them for a moment before Ilya keeps pushing, “You look like you will run away.”

Hollander huffs. Ilya sets his can down on the counter. 

“Hollander,” he says, a little quieter. Then Ilya takes another step, back into the other boy’s personal space. Hollander is looking at him, his lips slightly parted. 

“You invited me,” Ilya states, perfectly neutral. 

Finally, something shifts. Hollander’s eyes brighten. 

“And you came,” he says, sharply. 

A grin spreads over Ilya’s face. Of course, Hollander would turn this into some kind of challenge. It’s perfect.

“I did.” Ilya lifts his hand and touches the back of his first two fingers under Hollander’s jaw, tilting his head back just a tiny bit further. 

Hollander’s breath catches, but he doesn’t pull back. 

“Relax,” Ilya mumbles before he closes the short distance that remains between them. 

The kiss is quick and confident. A warm, dry brush of their lips. Testing, but certain of the outcome. Hollander’s hand closes in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt just before Ilya pulls away.

“That wasn’t very relaxing,” Hollander deadpans. 

Ilya chuckles under his breath. “You want me to try again?”

Instead of answering, Hollander pulls Ilya back in by his shirt and kisses him again. There is a lot more urgency to it this time, and Ilya is fucking delighted. Hollander isn’t being careful, he licks into Ilya’s mouth like it’s a fight he intends to win. 

Hollander’s water bottle falls to the floor and Ilya laughs into the kiss. A second hand comes up to rest on his waist. Ilya gets backed into the counter, and he pulls Hollander along with his hands on the other boy’s hips. 

By the time they pull apart, both of them need to catch their breath. 

Hollander looks wrecked already. His lips are dark and wet with spit. Ilya drags his thumb across Hollander’s lower lip to gather the moisture. 

“You are relaxed now?” he asks.

Hollander doesn’t respond. 

Instead, he drops to his knees. 

Wow. 

Hollander’s hands are on Ilya’s waistband, sliding under his shirt, skimming against his skin. He looks up through his lashes before leaning forward to mouth at Ilya’s dick through the fabric of his sweatpants. 

His dick goes from ‘vaguely interested’ to ‘rock hard’ so fast, it almost makes Ilya dizzy. 

And there’s no reprieve for him either. Hollander keeps nuzzling his bulge, he’s making these tiny little noises and – okay, maybe Ilya is a little dizzy. 

Hollander pauses, then looks up and asks, “Can I please suck your dick?”

Maybe Ilya is actually having a heart attack. Why is he being so polite about it? Meanwhile Ilya’s gripping the edge of the counter behind him so hard, it’s starting to hurt. He is barely aware of his own response, a mumbled “Да,” and slow nod. 

It’s like he’s hypnotized. Hollander is undoing the knot in the drawstring.

Ilya’s mouth is dry. Fingers hook into the waistband and pull down.

His breathing is shallow. He can feel Hollander’s warm breath ghosting over his cock. 

Ilya has to clench his eyes shut when Hollander takes him into his mouth because it feels like he’d be right about to come otherwise – before anything even really happened. It’s kind of pathetic, really, but Ilya isn’t thinking about that right now. He shouldn’t be this affected but – fuuuck. 

He risks tangling one of his hands in Hollander’s hair, the other one keeps gripping the counter. It’s so silky. The blowjob is clumsy, but the way Hollander flicks his tongue makes Ilya bite down on his lip, trying hard not to thrust. 

Except when he does slip up and moves his hips forward a bit, Hollander moans around his cock. So Ilya does it again. And again. “Да, Hollander, вот так…”

Ilya admits defeat. He looks down. 

Hollander’s hair is a mess, with Ilya’s hand fisted in it. His eyes are closed, lips stretched wide around Ilya. Ilya looks at Hollander’s freckles for several long moments. He is so…

“... Ты такой красивый,” Ilya’s voice sounds raw. “Such a good mouth…” 

Hollander groans. Ilya can see the way he is grinding his palm against his own crotch. Ilya can feel the tension rolling over him in waves, quicker and quicker now. 

“Fuck, I will… ,” he tries to gently pull Hollander off him by his hair. But the other isn’t budging. Instead, the one hand he still has on Ilya’s hip digs in. Hollander opens his eyes and looks up at Ilya, determined.

His orgasm pretty much crashes into him. Ilya’s entire body twitches as a warm wave of pleasure spreads through him. Hollander makes a choked off little sound as Ilya spills down his throat, but then swallows around him. Once, twice. 

Hollander lingers for a second before he pulls off. When he licks his lips, Ilya just drops down to the floor next to him. He claims Hollander’s mouth, pushing the other boy back against the kitchen cabinets. Hollander kisses him back just as desperately. 

Spit gets swapped back and forth, until Hollander ends up flat on his back on the kitchen floor. Ilya pulls back, just a little, to catch his breath. Hollander is panting, chest heaving.

He looks delicious. 

Ilya pushes Hollander’s shirt up so that it bunches under his armpits, then runs his hands over the exposed skin. He leans back in to lick a stripe up Hollander’s throat. Ilya can feel the other boy shiver under his hands as he nips at his ear.

His fingers trail down Hollander’s body, further and further. Ilya opens the button with one hand, using the other to hold himself up. Hollander whines as Ilya pulls down the zipper. 

He keeps kissing Hollander’s neck while slowly stroking him through his underwear. The moans almost echo. Beautiful, breathless little noises. 

“Please,” Hollander’s voice is quiet and raw. 

Ilya should tease him. Would tease him – if he wasn’t so embarrassingly far gone. 

Instead, he moves to pull Hollander’s shorts off him and settles between his legs. Then he leans down and lavishes Hollander’s length with quick little flicks of his tongue before flattening it and licking him from base to tip.

“Please.” Hollander whines again. One of his hands is tangling itself in Ilya’s hair now and Ilya lets himself be pushed down. He laps up the salty precum before he starts sucking and bobbing his head up and down in earnest. The hand in his hair flexes.

He keeps going, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue whatever way makes Hollander moan the loudest. The other boy lets out a long “Fuuuuck,” as Ilya cups his balls and gently rolls them in his hand. 

Should he…? 

Ilya lets his fingers trace over the sensitive skin, lower and lower until he brushes them over Hollander’s taint. It earns him a full body shudder and a loud “Ohhh…”. Ilya keeps going, applying a little more pressure with his fingers and swirling his tongue. Underneath him, Hollander moves like he doesn’t know which sensation to press against. 

His finger slips, stroking over Hollander’s rim. There’s a garbled, desperate noise spilling from Hollander’s throat and the hand in his hair presses Ilya down. Emboldened, he uses his thumb to massage Hollander’s rim in rhythm with the movements of his mouth. 

Only a few moments later, Hollander is pulsing, coming on Ilya’s tongue with a loud sob. He bobs his head a few more times before releasing Hollander’s oversensitive cock from his mouth. 

Hollander looks properly, absolutely wrecked now. Flushed all over, sweat shining on his skin. Ilya’s own heartbeat is still hammering loud in his chest, a stark contrast to the quiet kitchen around them. 

He lies down on the floor next to Hollander as they both catch their breaths. 

For a while neither of them says anything.

Hollander’s chest rises and falls beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya can see the way he stares up at the ceiling like he’s trying to solve some kind of complicated problem.

Eventually Hollander clears his throat.

“We’re on the kitchen floor,” he says hoarsely.

Ilya turns his head and looks at him. “Yes.”

Hollander blinks slowly, then nods once, like this confirms something important. Then he mumbles, “I’ll have to mop here later…”

Ilya huffs out a startled laugh, “You are very strange, Hollander.” And, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “We did not spill anything.”

It’s Hollander’s turn to snort and chuckle now. Then he turns to Ilya, “Why am I strange?” he asks with an open expression.

Ilya pushes himself up onto one elbow, studying the other. Hollander still looks flushed and a little dazed.

“Most people talk more,” he says after considering it for a beat.

Hollander sits up and frowns slightly. “About what?” 

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. “About them. About how good they are.”

Hollander’s eyebrows draw together. “That seems like something they shouldn’t just decide based on their own opinion of themselves.”

Ilya lets out another laugh, softer this time. “Yes. But you are not like this. You look at the wall like difficult mathematics problem is written up there.”

Hollander turns his head to look back up at the ceiling. “I’m just… thinking. Reviewing.”

“Aha!” Ilya exclaims triumphantly, a grin on his lips. “So you also think about how good you are.”

Hollander hums quietly, and starts to pull his shorts back up. “Maybe not exactly. But it’s good practice to evaluate the results.”

Ilya also begins to fix his clothing. “Ah yes, Professor Hollander, of course,” he slowly gets up and reaches for the Coke can. “And so polite too,” Ilya teases before taking a sip.

“Polite?” Hollander is picking up the discarded water bottle from where he had dropped it to the floor earlier. 

“You ask for permission. Please and thank you.”

Hollander blinks. “That’s just… normal – and I didn’t say thank you.” He’s blushing again.

“But you are welcome,” Ilya wiggles his eyebrows.

“Oh fuck off,” Hollander says, with a slight smile, as he leans against the kitchen counter next to Ilya. 

Ilya tips the can back and studies him over the rim. “You like to analyze things, yes? Like on the ice. Always prepared.”

Hollander looks caught. “It’s not like I had a 12-step plan for this,” he huffs.

Ilya grins. “No?”

Hollander hesitates, “…I did some research.”

“Research,” Ilya repeats as he sets the can down.

Hollander picks at the water bottle label. “Just basic information.”

Ilya stares at him for a long moment.

Then he starts laughing again, louder this time.

“You researched this?” he asks, incredulous.

Hollander crosses his arms defensively. “It seemed like the responsible thing to do.”

“Responsible,” Ilya echoes, still grinning. He shifts and tilts his head, “Tell me, Professor Hollander,” he says lightly, “What does your research say?”

Hollander grimaces faintly. The water bottle label is slowly turning to confetti. “Just… you know, some definitions and, like… safety information.”

Ilya nearly chokes on air, “Safety information?”

Hollander shrugs, looking a little stubborn now. “There are… recommendations.”

“Recommendations,” Ilya repeats, laughing again.

“Fuck you,” Hollander grumbles, dropping the bottle back on the counter. Then he moves to open the fridge, clearly deciding this conversation has gone far enough.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” he asks instead.

Oh?

Ilya shouldn’t. 

Usually, Ilya never would.

Wouldn’t even consider it. 

He’s not the type to stick around once the deed is done. 

He should get out of here. 

Instead, Ilya pushes away from the counter and wanders over to look into the fridge over Hollander’s shoulder.

“Okay,” he says.

Chapter End Notes

"I should do the thing. I totally will do the thing. I'm absolutely going to do the thing." - Proceeds not to do the thing. Somehow that feels so ADHD-coded to me, or maybe that's just my personal experience.

Are you guys excited for what will happen next? Because I am. And a little nervous, maybe.

And, much more importantly, should the endgame pairing in this fic actually be Shane x Wikipedia? I feel like there's chemistry there.

Also, did the chapter count go up again? Who knows, it's a mystery.
(I had too much to say to fit it all into one chapter.)

 

No hometown hockey news this week because I've been busy. I know, heartbreaking, I'm gutted. But worry not, we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming soon!

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Light breaking into every color imaginable on the surface of a soap bubble.

Москва, Август 2007

The inside of Hollander’s fridge is absurdly neat. Containers stacked in perfect rows. Labels facing forward. Everything is arranged with the same precision Hollander brings to the ice. The same straight-forward way Coach Hollander doles out criticism and corrections. Ilya would expect nothing less.

Hollander pulls out a container with rice, another with broccoli, and a plastic box with chicken breast.

“You are serious?” Ilya is staring.

Hollander glances at him, “…Yes?”

“This,” Ilya gestures vaguely at the containers on the counter, “is what you eat for fun?”

Hollander pauses like he’s genuinely trying to understand the question. “It’s food,” he says finally, shrugging, “It’s for nutrition, not for fun.”

Ilya shakes his head slowly, amused. “So you hate flavor.”

Hollander just huffs and pulls a pan out of the cabinet. Ilya settles more comfortably against the counter to watch as he puts it on the stove. 

Hollander works methodically. Chicken first. He slices the breast into strips, then rubs spices over them with careful fingers. Then he washes his hands and gets another cutting board. He cuts the broccoli, then washes his hands again.

Ilya watches, notices.

By the time Hollander reaches for the knife again, Ilya pushes himself off the counter and steps closer, leaning over his shoulder.

“You cut everything exactly the same size,” he observes.

Hollander glances down at the cutting board. “That’s… normal.”

“No,” Ilya gestures toward the neat rows of nearly identical broccoli pieces. “Is serial killer behavior.”

Hollander exhales sharply through his nose. “Fuck off.” He finishes cutting the broccoli a little more forcefully than before, then drops the chicken into the pan. The sizzling fills the kitchen.

Ilya watches Hollander stir the pan with precise little movements. Rice goes into the microwave. While it runs, Hollander taps his fingers on the counter.

Not a rhythm. Just restless. Ilya watches that too.

Hollander dumps the broccoli into the pan. A minute later,  Ilya reaches over and steals a piece.

“It’s not done yet,” Hollander says immediately, scowling.

“I think we will survive.” Ilya eats it anyway. Then steals another.

“Urgh,” Hollander mutters, stirring the pan again. After a while, he seems to decide it’s done and divides the food between two plates. They sit across from each other at the kitchen table. 

Ilya takes a bite. Then pauses, “... Is good, actually.”

Hollander looks mildly offended, “Why wouldn’t it be good?”

Ilya shrugs, “Is boring. But better than I thought.”

They carry on in silence for a moment. Ilya notices Hollander isn’t really eating much. Mostly he’s just poking at the rice with his fork.

After a few beats, Hollander quietly asks, “Is this how it usually goes?”

Ilya freezes for a fraction of a second. He knows what Hollander means. Not the dinner itself. Rather, the dinner after what came before it.

Does Ilya usually stay?

No.

Usually, he’s already halfway out the door by now. Shoes back on. Not even a polite excuse at the ready, but rather just a “bye” before he disappears. 

Staying is… unfamiliar territory. 

Ilya could just lie. 

He could tell Hollander that he usually sticks around for a little while after. Or he could feign ignorance, pretend he doesn’t understand the question. – It would be easier, and in any other situation, he would. 

But this situation, Ilya tells himself, is different. Hollander being another guy and all that, probably.  

So he simply responds, “No.”

Hollander doesn’t move at first. He just looks at Ilya before nodding, once. Then looks back down at his plate. Something in Ilya’s chest twists unpleasantly. He ignores it. 

Hollander finally takes an actual bite of his food. The silence thickens.

“…So,” Ilya says lightly, leaning back in his chair. “Your research, Professor Hollander.”

Hollander sighs, sets his fork down and rubs a hand over his face. “Please stop calling me that.”

“Mmmmh… No. Fits you.” Ilya tilts his head, “This was part of it?”

Hollander frowns, “Dinner?”

“No,” Ilya smiles slowly, “Sucking my cock on the kitchen floor.”

Hollander nearly chokes on his water. “Fuck you,” he coughs, face turning red. Then, quieter, “…Yeah. Kind of.”

Ilya’s grin widens dangerously.

“It’s just… practice,” Hollander adds quickly. “You know. Curiosity. Collecting data.”

“Uh-huh,” Ilya hums. Sure. 

Then, after a moment, he asks, “That was all you are curious about?”

Hollander goes very still. His eyes widen slightly. He bites down on his bottom lip.

Ilya watches him carefully.

“…No,” Hollander is staring down at his plate again. Eventually, he says, “…There were other things.” 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Other things?” Interesting. 

Hollander nods, still not looking at him. “I just… haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

Not yet.  

Now Ilya is very interested. 

Curiosity is a perfectly solid reason to stay a little longer. Hollander turned this… thing between them into a whole research project after all. It would be irresponsible of Ilya not to help him see it through to get results.

 “What does your research say is next?”

Hollander furrows his brow. “Oh, uhm. I don’t… I’m not actually sure about that…” he keeps shoving food around his plate, “... But maybe, uhm – do you want to watch a movie?”

Hollander is clearly terrible at casual sex. 

Ilya isn’t surprised, he knows the other boy has no experience other than… well. Other than with Ilya. Which somehow only serves to make the whole situation even more intriguing. 

A movie is an almost unexpectedly normal suggestion. It feels very ‘American Teenage Drama’, in Ilya’s opinion. However, it kind of suits Hollander. ‘Canada’s Golden Boy’ fits right into the tropes those horrible TV shows always seem to repeat. Sveta loves them.

It’s probably a bad idea though. 

“Okay. Movie is good.”

*****

Hollander is crouching in front of the TV cabinet, “Uh, okay, so…”

Ilya is leaning back on the sofa, unsubtly checking out Hollander’s ass. Nice.  

“I don’t actually have a lot of movies,” Hollander mumbles and turns around with a small stack of DVDs in his hands.

Ilya leans against the arm of the couch and watches him carefully spread them out on the coffee table. “This is entire collection?” Ilya asks. “You move to other continent and bring… five movies?”

Hollander huffs. “I was busy packing stuff that actually mattered. You know, skates and such.” He’s nervously twirling his fingers. “And we’re only here for the summer. I thought I’d be spending most of my 2 months here at the rink, not in front of the TV.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and picks up one of the DVDs. “Of course you watch hockey movie,” he mutters while regarding the cover. ‘Miracle’ it reads, over the image of a man in a jersey, holding up a hockey stick and cheering. 

Hollander frowns, “It’s a good movie.”

Ilya raises his eyes to look over at him with a flat expression. “You are hockey player. All your time, you are on the ice. Or watching real hockey game tape. Is strange.”

“Screw you,” Hollander protests, “it’s a great story.”

Ilya flips the box over, scanning the back. “American underdogs defeat evil Soviets,” he pretends to read. 

Hollander winces. “It’s not like that...”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, then regards the rest of the collection, which seems… eclectic. A romantic comedy with two smiling actors on the cover. Some action movie, a guy with a gun staring into the middle distance. A superhero film. And something animated that Ilya vaguely remembers watching with Sveta back when they were still in grade school.

“Your taste is confusing,” Ilya states. 

Hollander shrugs. “Those are my parents’.”

“Ah. Then, your taste is… hockey,” Ilya says, handing Hollander the ‘Miracle’ disc box and indicating for him to put it on. 

Hollander fiddles with the DVD player for a while before an image appears on the screen. Then he gets up to sit down on the couch next to Ilya. Not too close, but definitely not as far away as he could have. 

This definitely isn’t how it usually goes. Ilya doesn’t – 

Ilya shifts his weight to settle deeper into the sofa cushions and turns his attention to the movie. 

At some point, the screen shows the American team skating suicides while their coach yells at them. Ilya frowns slightly at the line ‘You can’t win on talent alone’. 

Then the coach yells ‘Again!’ and he snorts.

“Боже… is just like Kharlamov,” Ilya says. Next to him, Hollander chuckles. 

When the movie ends, Ilya says, “Is horrible propaganda movie,” while dramatically shaking his head at the TV.

Hollander turns to him, “It’s not propaganda, though?” His brows are furrowed. “The US beat the Soviets in the 1980 Olympics and won gold.”

“Only because Vetrov was not Olympics goalie yet,” Ilya shrugs nonchalantly and leans further back into the sofa. Hollander looks amused, he’s biting his lip like he’s not trying to comment, or laugh. 

The credits roll.

Neither of them speaks. 

The silence is getting more and more oppressive. Ilya should – 

“Do you want to watch another one?” Hollander asks.

Ilya glances at the stack of DVDs again. He should probably leave. Hollander doesn’t look like he’s going to initiate anything and… 

“Sure.”

They go for the action movie this time around. ‘The Bourne Identity’. Hollander briefly protests, then immediately reconsiders his stance as he regards the other options.  

Ilya kind of wants to ask what a ‘Bourne’ is, but the question resolves itself as the main character is introduced. 

The action scenes are good.

At one point, Bourne jumps from a staircase railing and crashes into an attacker. Ilya sees the way Hollander frowns out of the corner of his eye before he mumbles, “That wouldn’t work.”

Ilya turns toward him. “What wouldn’t?”

“That move.”

“Looks cool.”

“It would destroy your knees,” Hollander huffs, leaning forward as if to assess Jason Bourne’s knees for damage. 

“Of course you worry about knees. You are athlete. Bourne has amnesia – he does not care about knees.”

Hollander snorts quietly. “That’s not how amnesia works. – Or knees, for that matter.”

Ilya gestures at the screen. “Man jumps off building, crashes window, keeps running. And knees is where you draw a line?”

Hollander rolls his eyes with a small smile. He leans back and drags one of his legs up onto the sofa. His shoulder presses against Ilya’s. He’s warm. 

Ilya doesn’t move. 

A while later, Bourne sprints across a rooftop. Hollander tilts his head. “He’s been running for ten minutes.”

“Yes.” Ilya looks over at him out of the corner of his eye. Hollander is squinting at the TV. 

“At full speed.”

“Yes.” 

“That’s not possible,” he concludes.

Ilya shrugs. “Maybe he trains harder than you, Hollander,” he says and lightly pushes back against Hollander’s side. 

Hollander looks back at Ilya for a moment. “His poor knees.” His laugh dissolves into a little yawn. 

They both turn their eyes back to the movie. 

Ilya already knows what’s coming next. It’s like that saying about people watching a trainwreck. He lets it happen. Just a few minutes later, Hollander’s head tips sideways onto Ilya’s shoulder. His breathing is even. His eyes are closed. 

Ilya should wake him up. 

This is definitely the moment Ilya should get up and leave.

The room is dark except for the light coming from the TV. The blue glow makes Hollander’s freckles stand out against his cheeks. 

Among dozens, maybe hundreds of others, there’s the ones that form a straight line just under his right eye. 

Ilya tries to count them, starting with the bridge of Hollander’s nose, but his vision is slightly blurry. He loses track. 

He should leave. 

Ilya blinks once.

Then once more. 

Then doesn’t bother opening his eyes again.

*****

The TV music is looping. Some soft orchestral swell that keeps building like something important is about to happen before fading out and starting again.

It’s the first thing Ilya notices as he begins to wake up. 

The second thing is the weight on his shoulder. It’s warm. Breathing.

Oh. Right.

Hollander.

Ilya opens one eye. The glare from the TV feels blinding in the surrounding dark. Jason Bourne keeps running across the DVD menu.

Hollander is still asleep. His head is still leaning on Ilya’s shoulder, an arm folded awkwardly between their bodies. His hair is tickling Ilya’s neck. 

Briefly, Ilya wonders whether he should give counting his freckles another try.

Instead he exhales slowly through his nose.

This… is inconvenient.

Ilya should move. Wake Hollander up. Leave. Go home.

He doesn’t.

The music loops again. Hollander shifts against him. His brow is furrowed slightly, the same way it does when he’s receiving feedback from the coaches. His head moves, then he finally blinks awake.

For a second, Hollander just stares at the TV through half-lidded eyes. Then he seems to become aware of where he is – and freezes.

Very slowly, Hollander lifts his head from Ilya’s shoulder. “…Sorry,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

Ilya’s brain feels like it’s still on standby. He watches Hollander rub a hand over his eyes and glance over the back of the sofa toward the kitchen.

“Oh fuck,” Hollander mumbles under his breath. 

Ilya follows his gaze to the microwave clock across the kitchen. It’s late. Really late.

Hollander shuffles around next to him. Turns on a small lamp, then picks up the remote to turn the TV off. Ilya immediately misses the annoying DVD menu music.

Hollander just sits there for a moment, running a hand through his hair. Then he yawns.

This time it makes Ilya yawn as well. 

Hollander glances over at him briefly, then he looks down at his hands. “... We should probably go to bed,” he says softly. 

Ilya blinks at him. For a moment the sentence doesn’t fully process. 

Then it does.

Ilya considers several possible responses. Laughter. A resounding ‘fuck no.’ – Most of them involve leaving. It’s the sensible choice. 

But Ilya is too tired to be sensible. So instead he nods and follows as Hollander stands up.

“I think we have some spare pillows somewhere,” Hollander says, already moving toward the staircase in the hallway. Ilya trods after him. 

Fuck it. He’ll deal with whatever is happening when he’s not half-asleep. 

*****

Ilya is awoken by the mattress shifting under him. He opens his eyes just barely to find early grey light spilling into the room. 

Next to him, Hollander is sitting up in bed.

“Что ты делаешь?” Ilya’s voice is gravelly, half muffled against the pillow.

“What?” Hollander pauses, halfway through pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Ah yes. English. Ilya tries again, “What are you doing?”

Hollander is quiet for a moment, then he says, “I usually go for a run before breakfast,” like it’s the most obvious, normal thing in the world. He’s shuffling toward the edge of the bed. 

“You’re insane,” Ilya shifts under the sheets, staring at the other boy’s back through sleepily narrowed eyes. “Is still middle of the night.”

“I do it every day,” Hollander shrugs and plants his feet on the floor. 

“Very good reason to skip today.” 

Hollander turns to look back at Ilya and pauses.

“No one will know. I will not tell,” Ilya offers, conspiratorially. 

“Routines are important,” Hollander says, but his tone is less definitive than it was before.

Ilya hums, “Ahh, so this is… compulsion? That is right word, yes?”

Hollander frowns “It’s not –”

Ilya lifts a hand from under the covers and waves him off, “No, no, Hollander, is okay,” he yawns. “Maybe if you skip run, entire system collapses.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“No?” Ilya tilts his head, studying him. “You know this? Maybe is another experiment?” Ilya grins. Then, very casually, he adds, “We can find alternative physical activity.”

Hollander freezes, then starts biting his lips again. 

Ilya closes his eyes again like the conversation is already finished. “Maybe even better for conditioning,” he murmurs and burrows deeper into the sheets.

For a moment nothing happens. 

Then Hollander says, slowly, quietly, “You’re unbelievable.”

Ilya makes a small noncommittal noise into the pillow.

There’s the quiet rustle of fabric behind him. A pause. Then the mattress dips again.

Ilya opens one eye. Hollander is sitting there with his legs back up on the mattress. The shirt he was pulling on has disappeared again. He’s regarding Ilya with a mildly annoyed expression. 

“What?” Ilya mumbles.

Hollander frowns a little, then sighs. “Just this once,” he says, crawling back under the blankets. 

Ilya hums softly and lets his eyes fall shut again. “Good choice.”

Hollander ends up settling back beside him. Just a little closer than he was earlier, Ilya thinks as he watches the other boy through half-lidded eyes. 

Hollander exhales quietly and turns onto his side, facing Ilya now. 

The room is very still, pale morning light creeps slowly across the floorboards.

Hollander shifts again, tugging the blanket higher. 

Ilya reaches his hand out, and their fingers brush. 

Had he wanted to do something? He already forgot. 

Now Ilya is fully focused on the small point of contact between them. 

Neither of them pulls away. 

Hollander’s breath catches for a second before evening out again. Ilya’s hand stays where it is, brushing lightly against the back of Hollander’s wrist. When Ilya looks up from their hands, Hollander is already watching him.

Then, slowly, Hollander turns his hand over.

Ilya’s fingers slide up the inside of his wrist and tangle with Hollander’s. His skin is soft over the callouses. It’s warm.

For a long moment they just lie there, hands tangled loosely. Hollander’s gaze drifts sluggishly between their hands and Ilya’s face. His brow is furrowed. Ilya catches his tongue poke out of and swipe over his lip. Then he sucks his lip into his mouth and bites down on it. 

“You think so loud,” Ilya mumbles into the small space between them.

The corner of Hollander’s mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m reconsidering my run.”

“You are not,” Ilya says definitively, readjusting his pillow and moving just a little bit closer without really trying to. He can feel Hollander’s breath on his skin.

For a while it feels like they’re both waiting to see who moves first.

Then Hollander exhales quietly and lightly tugs their clasped hands toward himself. It pulls Ilya another few inches across the mattress. 

They blink at each other. 

Hollander lifts his free hand. It hovers between them. 

“Hollander –”

“Just…,” Hollander mutters, sounding faintly embarrassed already. His cheeks are a little pink. He hesitantly settles his raised hand on Ilya’s side. Ilya lets himself be pulled the last few inches until their shoulders are touching. 

Ilya studies Hollander for a moment. He still looks half asleep. His hair is sticking up at the back. There’s a faint imprint on his cheek from the pillow. 

He’s looking at Ilya’s lips, then back up at his eyes.

Ilya tilts his head and leans in. Hollander meets him halfway. 

The kiss is quick. Soft. A little tentative.

Like they’re both still waking up. 

When they part, neither of them moves very far. Hollander’s fingers are softly pressing into Ilya’s waist. 

“Now…” Ilya murmurs after a second. “Still thinking about your run?”

Hollander huffs a warm, quiet laugh, “Shut up.”

He digs his fingers deeper into Ilya’s skin, a little more confident. Their legs tangle under the blankets.

It seems that at least a part of Hollander is very much awake already. Ilya grins. 

“Shut up,” Hollander says once more. There’s a slight whine to his tone this time around. 

Ilya doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, he rolls his hips against Hollander’s and gets a little gasp for his efforts. 

Hollander drags his hand up from Ilya’s waist, over his chest. He brushes his thumb along Ilya’s jaw, almost absentmindedly, like he’s not quite aware of what he’s doing. 

The touch makes Ilya go still.

Hollander notices. His hand lingers for a second before sliding back down a little, fingers resting lightly against the side of Ilya’s neck.

The next kiss is slower. More certain. Their hands are still tangled. The blankets are rustling softly around them. Hollander rolls his hips forward against Ilya, reciprocating.

Outside, the light is gradually growing brighter. 

Ilya doesn’t notice.

Hollander doesn’t seem to either. When the kiss breaks and Ilya pulls back a little, he can see Hollander’s eyes are barely open. His pupils are wide, dark between his lashes.

They keep lazily grinding against each other. 

Their fingers untangle after a while, the blankets get pushed away. 

The room is heating up. 

Ilya wriggles out of his underwear. Hollander watches before copying the movement.

Then they simply keep moving against each other. Languidly at first, then the unhurried movements gradually speed up. 

Hollander’s hands are all over Ilya. His chest, his hips, his face again. Ilya groans into the kiss when Hollander flicks a blunted finger nail over one of his nipples. 

He does it again.

Ilya gently bites his lip. Hollander pulls back to suck on his neck. 

The thought comes unbidden, feels almost intrusive. Still, it echoes through Ilya’s head.

Finally, they’re alone. 

They have time. 

They’re in bed. 

Finally.

Hollander’s teeth scrape over the column of Ilya’s neck. They grind against each other harder. Hollander’s breath stutters against Ilya’s skin.

… Ilya wants to fuck him.

He slides a hand down to wrap it around Hollander’s thigh, then pulls it up over his own hip. Ilya shifts his weight and flips them so that he ends up on top of the other boy. 

Hollander seems briefly disoriented, but unbothered. He simply readjusts, one hand in Ilya’s hair pulls him back down into another sloppy kiss. 

Ilya is hyperaware of the way the crucifix on his necklace rests against Hollander’s collarbones like this. 

The contrast of the gold against his freckled skin is pretty. 

Maybe it’s just the lighting. 

… God, would Hollander let Ilya fuck him?

Ilya pulls back a little and lets his hands trail down over Hollander’s body. Lines up their erections and wraps his fingers around them. The other hand slowly wanders on. 

He brushes his fingers over Hollander’s entrance, same as he did last night. Hollander gasps and shivers a little. Ilya likes how he feels against him. Hollander only tenses up for a moment before he carefully begins pushing back against Ilya’s fingers.

“You want?” Ilya asks, quietly, and watches for his reaction.  

Hollander seems to consider it. 

Ilya imagines him going through his mental research files, and he tries not to smile at the thought. 

A few seconds pass, then Hollander exhales quietly. “Yes,” he says, sure yet still a little wobbly.

Ilya hums. “Do you ever…” he starts, circling his finger around Hollander’s hole, “... touch yourself here?”

He watches Hollander bite down on his lip again. After a pause, he mumbles, “... I, uhh… I did. Twice. – Kind of?”

“Kind of?” Ilya echoes. 

Hollander huffs and pushes back against Ilya’s fingers with a little more force. “Yeah, kind of.” He pins Ilya with an intense gaze, then rolls his hips again, “Just… do it. Please, okay?”

Ilya likes this.

The contact between them feels electric.

He likes it when Hollander says ‘please’ with that particular shade of red on his cheeks.

He likes – 

Ilya pulls his hand away and up, holding out two fingers in front of Hollander’s slightly disgruntled face. He just can’t help but to poke and push at the other boy any chance he gets. 

“Suck,” Ilya says.

And Hollander does. No hesitation. 

His hand grabs Ilya’s to pull it closer so fast, Ilya almost loses his balance. Hollander wraps his lips around his pointer and middle finger and sucks them into his mouth. He twirls his tongue around the digits, coating them in saliva. 

His eyes are closed. 

He looks like he’s enjoying himself.

This feels… different.

Ilya looks at him with a small smile. “Is this the kind of research you did?” he asks, his fingers still inside of Hollander’s mouth. 

Hollander huffs out an annoyed little sound, but keeps suckling at his fingers. After another few seconds, Ilya pulls his hand back and presses his mouth to Hollander’s instead. He’s licking along the seam of his lips while moving his wet fingers down Hollander’s body. 

Hollander gasps into the kiss when Ilya touches him again, gently spreading the spit over his hole. Ilya knows it’s nowhere near enough to comfortably slip a finger inside of him. Still, he keeps brushing and teasing while tangling his tongue with Hollander’s. 

After a minute or so, Hollander starts getting impatient, pushing back against his hand again. 

Ilya pulls away. “Wait,” he says before Hollander can complain. 

He shifts and leans down over the side of the bed to where he dropped his bag last night. Ilya doesn’t need to search for long before he finds what he’s looking for. Lube. 

Hollander raises an eyebrow at him – and, okay, yes. Maybe Ilya had been hoping for something like this. 

Or maybe not! Maybe he just liked to be prepared for anything, all the time. 

Hollander doesn’t ask though, he just watches attentively as Ilya opens the bottle and squirts some of its contents onto his hands. 

“Ah! Cold,” Hollander huffs as Ilya wraps one hand around his throbbing dick while the other goes back to stroking his rim. The complaint is somewhat undermined by the way he spreads his legs further apart. 

Ilya is careful as he begins to nudge the tip of his finger inside of Hollander. 

The other boy clenches around him. “Sorry,” he winces immediately.

“Is okay,” Ilya says calmly, “Just breathe, relax. We go slow. You say stop, I stop, yes?”

Hollander nods, “... okay.”

Then Ilya dips down to take the head of Hollander’s cock into his mouth, slowly moving up and down his shaft in tandem with his hand. He can feel the way Hollander relaxes under him, breathing deeply. Ilya slowly works his finger deeper inside of him, curls it a little and brushes over Hollander’s walls. 

“Holy shit!” Hollander gasps and arches up beneath him. 

Okay. Yeah. That is the part that is decidedly different from when Ilya had tried this with a girl before.

Ilya smirks around Hollander’s dick before he rubs his finger over the same spot again. Hollander moans loudly, head thrown back, before pressing a hand to his mouth and biting down on his own knuckles.

Ilya isn’t exactly sure why, but for a moment he thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Hollander – always so focused, always so restrained – can’t control himself. 

Not that the hand is doing much. All kinds of little gasps and whimpers are still slipping past it as Ilya continues his ministrations.

“Ah, fuck…,” Hollander rasps out, breathless, “You… stop. You have to stop.”

Ilya has already pulled back before Hollander finishes the sentence. 

Fuck. Did he do something wrong? Something painful? 

“Okay?” Ilya asks, hoping his nerves don’t show.

Hollander nods, still panting, “Yeah… just… I don’t want to come yet.”

Oh.

Ilya didn’t do anything wrong, then. Not at all. He is doing things just right, it seems. Ilya can’t help the smile that spreads over his face as he watches and waits for Hollander to catch his breath. 

Slowly, with every rise and fall of his chest, Hollander seems to calm down again, backing away from the edge. 

He’s looking at Ilya, gaze curiously swiping over his body – until it catches on Ilya’s cock. Hollander’s breathing stops for a second, eyes going wide, eyebrows drawing up and together. 

Fuck.

Ilya knows he’s large. It’s been a hurdle before, but… never an issue, ultimately. 

Still. “We do not have to,” he offers, carefully watching Hollander’s expression. 

It shifts immediately, from doubtful to determined. “I want to,” Hollander insists, slightly pushing himself against Ilya again.

Okay then. 

Ilya nods.

Is it normal that Hollander’s weird, slightly scared enthusiasm is turning him on?

– Nevermind. 

He leans back in, squirts some more lube onto his hand, then presses his fingers back against Hollander’s opening. The first one slips inside easily. The second one does too. Hollander gasps and twitches around him, but doesn’t tense up. 

“Touch yourself,” Ilya tells him, and a pleased shiver runs down his spine at the way Hollander obeys him instantly. 

Hollander looks good, stroking his own cock while Ilya’s fingers are stretching him open.

After another while and a third finger, he starts getting impatient again. “Come on…” he urges, wriggling closer to Ilya.

“Are you sure?” Ilya asks but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Could hurt.”

“Yes. Oh my god, yes,” Hollander is gasping the words out, sounding delightfully frustrated. “I’m fucking sure.”

Ilya withdraws his fingers and leans back to fish a condom out of his bag. He takes a moment to carefully roll it down his dick.

The moment takes too long for the boy underneath him, apparently. Hollander hooks a leg around his waist and pulls Ilya in closer. “Come on,” he whines, “Please.”

Ilya couldn’t have dreamed up the sight in front of him, no matter how hard he would have tried. 

The freckles. The flushed skin. The pleading. 

Just for a second, Ilya hesitates. Then he moves to line himself up, like he hadn’t just stalled in the first place. 

But Hollander notices it anyway. 

He drops his leg from where it was just wrapped around Ilya.

“... Are you sure?” He asks quietly, looking up at Ilya with his pretty brown eyes.

And –

It takes Ilya a second to process the words. 

He blinks. 

The question catches him off guard. 

People don’t usually ask him that.

But here Hollander is. 

Still watching him carefully – like he’s waiting for an actual answer.

“If I wanted to stop,” Ilya murmurs, “you would know.” He rubs the head of his cock over Hollander’s hole. 

Hollander makes a little noise, but keeps studying Ilya for another second, like he’s confirming that. Then he nods slightly. “Okay. Good.”

Why is he so –

Ilya exhales. “Get on your stomach. Easier that way.” He pats Hollander’s thigh. 

One of Hollander’s hands flies down to cover his, pressing it against his leg. 

Ilya’s heart is beating faster all of a sudden. And for a long moment, they just look at each other. 

Then Hollander squeezes his hand and takes a slow, steady breath.

Ilya’s thumb brushes over the side of his palm.

The other boy rolls over for him. 

Gently, Ilya puts both of his hands on Hollander’s waist. He runs them down along his sides until they come to rest on Hollander’s hips. The slight bit of tension remaining between Hollander’s shoulder bleeds out as he exhales. 

Ilya squeezes and pulls his hips up a little to line himself up again.

His thumbs brush over the dimples on Hollander’s lower back.

They’re a perfect fit. 

He can feel the warmth of Hollander’s skin under his palms, the slight rise and fall of his breathing. 

His pulse.

Ilya commits the scene in front of him to memory.

Then he pushes.

Hollander gasps as Ilya nudges the head of his cock against his entrance. He presses in, slow and cautious, paying attention to Hollander’s movements underneath him. Hollander is trembling a bit. He makes a noise, but it’s not one of pain. Ilya still gives him a second to adjust before he pushes further.

Hollander is tight around him. 

So incredibly tight. 

Ilya hears the way Hollander’s breath hitches and stalls. “Okay?” he asks again, running his hands back up and down over Hollander’s back. 

“Give me… a moment,” Hollander pants out and Ilya stays perfectly still. He takes a few deep breaths, shifts slightly, forces himself to relax. Ilya can feel it under his palms. 

When Hollander speaks again, his voice sounds a little strained, but confident. “Yeah, okay.”

Ilya pulls back out a little bit, then carefully pushes back in, deeper than before. It’s so –

“Fuck,” Hollander gasps under him, “Okay. Wow.”

Ilya smiles to himself and repeats the motion. Careful little thrusts, a fraction deeper every time. 

Holding back is starting to get trickier with the way Hollander seems to be sucking him in. 

So fucking perfect.

Ilya shifts and adjusts his position slightly. On his next thrust, Hollander muffles a loud, high moan with his pillow.

He freezes for half a second, startled by the sound.

Hollander’s hips rock back again almost immediately.

His hole twitches around Ilya. Tight and hot. 

“There! That! Keep doing that!” he tells Ilya frantically.

Ilya does exactly what is asked of him, and Hollander starts pushing back, meeting every thrust. He’s babbling little uhn’s and aahh’s and yeah’s into the mattress. 

Fuck, if Ilya could see his face –

When Ilya starts to go a little harder, Hollander’s breath hitches before rocking back just as forcefully with a drawn out “Oh God…”

By this point, Ilya is only dimly aware of the noises he himself is making. He knows he’s saying something, but he has no clue what. Is it English? Russian? His brain is on vacation while his dick is putting in the work. 

And it feels so fucking good.

He watches as Hollander wraps one of his hands around his own leaking dick and starts to stroke himself in time with Ilya’s thrusts. 

He speeds up a little. 

Ilya is getting close. 

The way Hollander is moaning and writhing, Ilya is pretty sure he’s not the only one. He leans forward, draping himself over Hollander’s back and mouthing at his neck while keeping up his rhythm. 

Ilya can taste him.

“Fuuuck… Come on, Hollander.” he growls, thrusts hard and fast.

Under his hands, Ilya can practically feel how the tension builds up within Hollander. 

He keeps thrusting, right there on the edge with him.

The tension coils tighter and tighter until – 

“Oh – fuck!” Hollander grits out before his breath dissolves into a long moan.

Ilya is hauling Hollander back by his hips. The way the Hollander twitches around him finally tips him over the edge as well. Ilya has to close his eyes at the intensity of it, but keeps grinding into Hollander as he rides out his orgasm until the stimulation becomes too overwhelming. 

He stills, then collapses on top of Hollander, smushing him into the mattress. Hollander lets out a breathless little sound beneath him.

They just lie there for a moment. The silence is warm and comfortable around them. Hollander’s skin is so soft.

Ilya is still catching his breath when Hollander mumbles, “Now the bed’s all dirty…”

“What?” Ilya asks, “... Shut up.” He rolls to the side, arms wrapping around Hollander to drag him along with him. God, he’s so tired. 

Ilya’s chest is flush against Hollander’s back. He can feel the other boy’s heartbeat under his fingers. He nuzzles his face into the hair at the nape of Hollander’s neck. 

They’re both sticky with sweat and Hollander somehow still manages to smell nice. Soapy. Spicy. Ilya gently bites him and Hollander only hums in response. Presses back against him just a little.

The chain of his necklace is caught between them, the little crucifix pressed somewhere against Hollander’s shoulder blade .

After a few moments, he can feel his dick starting to slip out from where it had still been buried in Hollander’s ass. With a small sigh, he untangles himself, carefully pulls out and rolls off the bed.

Ilya steps into the bathroom to clean up a little. Ties off the condom and drops it in the little trashcan. When he’s done, he finds himself looking at the fluffy towels neatly folded up in the cupboard. 

He pulls one out and dampens the edge of it in the sink. 

When he comes back into the bedroom, Hollander is lying on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes. 

He’s smiling to himself.

Soft. Unaware. Completely unguarded.

Ilya has never seen him like that before. 

For a second, his heart is beating so hard it almost hurts.

He watches just a little longer.

Then he walks over and crawls back onto the mattress next to Hollander. He hands him the towel.

“Good?” Ilya asks him.

“Mhm,” Hollander shakily wipes off his chest, then turns to look at him, “Good.” He’s smiling that careful little smile. Ilya has seen it before. 

Then Hollander leans over and kisses him. 

And Ilya lets himself be pulled in before he can think too hard about it.

Somehow, they end up wrapped around each other all over again. 

“We should probably shower…” Hollander murmurs sleepily.

“Later.” Ilya is already closing his eyes.  

*****

When Ilya starts to wake this time, the light around him is bright enough to shine through his lids. He presses his eyes shut more firmly and tries to roll away from the glare.

Something is in his way.

Ilya carefully angles his head away from the sun and cautiously cracks one eye open. 

Skin. 

Freckles.

He blinks and lifts his head a little to find Hollander’s back pressed to Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arm is draped around him. His hand on Hollander’s chest is held in place by Hollander’s arm curling over top of it. 

Ilya goes very still.

Probably a bit too still, too stiff, because it causes Hollander to shift.

Ilya is holding his breath.

“... need to shower,” Hollander grumbles, voice low. He still seems half asleep as he starts to untangle himself from Ilya. He’s out of bed and in the bathroom before Ilya can freak out any further.

Fuck. 

He should go.

Ilya retrieves his phone from where it sits on the nightstand. It’s well past noon. 

That explains the aggressively bright light flooding the room. 

There’s a new text message from Sveta. 

Sveta: How did last night go?

Ilya starts typing out a reply, only to abruptly stop two words in. 

He stares at the screen. 

What exactly is he supposed to respond to that?

His brain, very unhelpfully, supplies a highlight reel. 

Hollander biting his lip. 

The way he’d said “Are you sure?” 

That ridiculous, breathless noise he’d made into the pillow.

It’s probably the type of stuff Sveta would love to hear about, but something about it feels – 

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

Jesus. 

That… 

That technically happened this morning. Not last night. 

Last night, they hadn’t made it past Hollander offering him a drink before they ended up on the kitchen floor. 

And then Hollander had cooked him dinner. 

And they watched movies on the sofa. 

And they fell asleep together.

… That’s somehow worse.

Ilya deletes his reply, but keeps staring at Sveta’s message until the sound of the shower cuts off. He locks the phone and sets it back on the nightstand.

A minute later the bathroom door opens and Hollander walks back into the bedroom. His hair is damp. He’s wearing sweatpants now, the drawstring hanging loose as he crosses the room toward Ilya.

He looks… pissed. 

That probably isn’t a good sign.

“What the fuck, Rozanov?” Hollander hisses as he stops next to the bed. His fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats and push them slightly down over his hips. 

Suspiciously finger-shaped bruises are already darkening over Hollander’s hip bones.

Ilya tilts his head as he considers his handiwork. 

“Looks good on you,” he says eventually, smirking up at Hollander. 

“That’s not –” Hollander gestures helplessly at his own sides. “That’s not a normal thing to say! Or to do! Probably.”

Ilya shrugs, “I think you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t – fuck off! You can’t just –” Hollander stops mid-sentence. His eyes drop to Ilya’s chest. 

“Oh…,” he starts, something strange flickering in his eyes, “... did I do that?”

Ilya glances down. 

He can see the edge of a bruise, sitting just under his collarbone. He grins. “Probably.”

Hollander gapes at him. “Why the fuck are you smiling?”

“Looks good on me, too.”

Hollander opens his mouth, halts, and closes it again. With a little sigh he looks down at his hips again and presses his fingers into the bruise, testing it. His expression shifts from indignation to mild concern.

“…Do you think these will still be there by Tuesday?” He presses on the bruise again, like he might be able to erase it that way.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You want to show off?”

“No,” Hollander snaps. “But… we have practice.”

Ilya finally sits up properly, stretching his arms over his head. “You worry someone will see?”

Hollander glares at him, “It’s not exactly subtle.”

“They do not look at your hips, Hollander.”

“... You told me you do.”

Ilya’s breath catches for a moment, then he laughs. “If someone asks, say to them that you got checked into boards. You do not have to tell them it was headboard.”

Hollander stares at him with wide eyes. “... Oh my god. You fucking lunatic, I can’t…” he turns and mutters under his breath as he stalks out of the bedroom. 

“Take a shower!” Hollander yells back at him from down the hallway.

Ilya drops back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling for a second.

Then he snorts quietly to himself and gets up, heading for the bathroom.

*****

Hollander is standing at the stove when Ilya wanders into the kitchen, curls still damp from the shower and wearing yesterday’s pants. There’s a pan on the burner. Eggs. Toast in the toaster.

Hollander briefly glances over his shoulder and acknowledges Ilya with a tiny nod, but doesn’t say anything. 

Ilya only takes about ten seconds to locate the kettle. 

Excellent. 

He opens one of the cabinets and starts looking through it.

“What are you doing?” Hollander looks over at him. 

“Making tea,” Ilya says, opening another cabinet.

Aha! A jar of raspberry jam! Ilya picks it up and puts it down on the counter next to the kettle. 

Next to him, Hollander’s brows are furrowed. The other boy turns to open a different cabinet and wordlessly hands Ilya a box of teabags. 

“You want?” Ilya asks, having found mugs in the meantime and holding two of them up. 

Hollander seems to think for a moment. Ilya briefly wonders if Hollander’s health-food obsession goes so far he won’t even drink tea because of the caffeine or something. 

But then Hollander slowly nods and says, “Yes,” before turning his attention back to the pan. 

A few minutes later, Hollander sets two plates with omelettes down on the dining table, and Ilya provides two mugs of tea. 

Hollander only gets a few bites into his meal before he scrunches his face up. The expression makes his freckles dance across his cheeks. He’s watching Ilya scoop up a generous spoonful of raspberry jam and stirring it into his mug.

“... What the hell are you doing?” Hollander’s head is tilted as he watches Ilya tape a sip of his tea with an expression right in between curiosity and horror.

“Drinking tea.”

“That is not how tea works.”

Ilya takes another sip and shrugs. “You should try.”

Hollander dubiously glances at his own mug of tea. 

Ilya offers him his, “Try.”

Hollander takes the cup quickly, their fingers brush. He hesitates a moment before drinking, but then he lifts it to his mouth. 

When he sets it back down, his face is all scrunched up again. “Too sweet,” he concludes and shoves the mug back toward Ilya.

“You have no taste,” Ilya says calmly, taking another sip. “Is perfect.”

Hollander huffs, “I just like things a certain way. No need to mess with stuff that works.”

“I thought you like experiments.” Ilya grins over the rim of his cup. He watches the way Hollander’s face turns pink as he freezes halfway through cutting another bite of omelette.

“…Fuck off.” Hollander frowns while taking another bite of his food.

“Aw,” Ilya teases, “your research did not help?”

Hollander swallows and points his fork at him. “It helped enough.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. Hollander immediately looks like he regrets saying that.

“Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“Did not say anything,” Ilya grins. “But would only be fair to tell me. Is our experiment, yes?”

“I hate you.”

“Was it instructional video?” Ilya asks thoughtfully. “Or article?”

Hollander just stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly open.

Then he gets up and starts clearing their plates off the table.

“Oh, come on, Hollander! What is ‘safety information’ you talked about yesterday?” Ilya leans after him, trying very hard not to laugh.

Hollander doesn’t answer. He just walks past him toward the living room, ears still bright pink.

Ilya grabs his tea cup and follows him to the couch.

Hollander drops onto the sofa and grabs the remote from the coffee table. He turns the TV on, and the DVD menu for ‘The Bourne Identity’ flickers across the screen. The same dramatic orchestral music as last night fills the room again. 

“We were watching this yesterday,” Hollander says, pointing out the obvious and decidedly not looking at Ilya beside him.

“You were sleeping,” Ilya says.

Hollander scoffs. “So were you.”

“Yes. But I did not… how do you say this… spit on your shoulder?” 

Hollander turns to him at that, mouth open in offense, “Fuck you. I did not drool on you.” He is scowling. 

“Hmm…” Ilya hums and shrugs his shoulders as if to say ‘I don’t know… Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t…’

Hollander huffs.

Their knees bump when Ilya stretches his legs out.

Hollander rolls his eyes and turns back to the screen. “Just watch the fucking movie,” he mumbles. He looks very focused on the TV for someone who hasn’t actually pressed play yet.

He lifts the remote – but then pauses again before pressing the button.  

“This… stays between us. Right?” Hollander is not looking over at him. The tension in his body is obvious. 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You think I will tell people?”

The other boy exhales. “... No.”

His face looks a little guilty as he turns toward Ilya. A little insecure too. 

“No,” Ilya confirms. He doesn’t like that expression on Hollander. “Same secret, remember?”

At that, the tension seems to ease. Hollander breathes deep and nods to himself, shoulders relaxing a little.

“Right,” he says. Then he presses play. 

It doesn’t take long. 

Only a few minutes into the movie, their thighs are pressed together again.

*****

“I understand why Americans love car chases now,” Ilya mumbles when the credits start rolling. 

“That was completely unrealistic,” Hollander snorts.

“Is movie,” Ilya points out.

“That’s not an excuse to defy the laws of physics.” 

“Wow, Professor Hollander again.”

“He drove the car down a staircase!” Hollander gestures at the screen, “That’s fucking absurd!”

Ilya playfully shoves his shoulder against Hollander’s, “You are fucking absurd.”

Hollander huffs out a small laugh at that and settles back into the couch cushions. 

They keep touching. 

The credits keep rolling.

Ilya lets his gaze sweep across the room, only to abruptly halt when it catches on the clock on the wall. 

His stomach drops. 

It’s Sunday.

For a moment, Ilya almost forgot he’s supposed to be somewhere else.

He straightens slightly on the couch, and the contact between them breaks.

“I should go,” Ilya mutters.

Hollander looks at him, then he follows Ilya’s gaze to the clock on the wall. 

“... Oh. Right.”

“Family dinner,” he says – and immediately regrets it. Ilya doesn’t need to explain himself. But something about Hollander’s face was… Nevermind. 

The expression he’s making now isn’t much better.

Because it’s understanding. 

A memory creeps through Ilya’s mind. 

That day after they went out in St. Petersburg. Hollander in the park, running like he’s trying to punish himself. 

“Do you ever get tired of people deciding who you’re supposed to be?” Hollander had asked.

And Ilya, the idiot that he is, had said, “My father…” before he could stop himself. 

The DVD menu music is looping in the background again. 

“Is your father strict about that?” Hollander asks tentatively. 

Fuck.

“My father is many things,” Ilya says, voice light but face serious. 

Hollander slightly tilts his head and just looks at him for a while. 

He seems to get the message. 

Don’t ask.

There’s silence. Tension. And the stupid fucking music swelling and ebbing like it’s mocking Ilya.

Hollander shuffles, pulls a leg up on the sofa. “Guess that concludes our experiment,” he mumbles.

Ilya blinks. “Oh?”

“I mean, I’m leaving at the end of this week and… well. That was the whole point anyway, right?” He’s picking at his nails. 

Ilya studies him. 

Hollander is looking over Ilya’s shoulder instead of at his face.

Why – 

He swallows before he speaks again, “Feels like we probably pushed it far enough.”

Right. 

“Limited time offer, yes.” Ilya says.

It’s true, he himself had called it that.

And they agreed. 

And it’s fine.

But something about the way Hollander isn’t quite looking at him makes Ilya’s throat tighten.

That’s not the way he – 

Hollander never – 

After a few more seconds, Ilya starts to get up off the couch. He clears his throat. 

“Bag,” he says before he turns around and walks away, toward Hollander’s bedroom.

He can’t take the way the other isn’t looking at him.

When Ilya comes back down the stairs, Hollander is awkwardly lingering in the hallway. The TV is off.

The walk to the front door together. Neither of them says anything.

Ilya puts his shoes back on. 

For a moment, it looks like Hollander is about to say something. He doesn’t.

“See you at practice,” Ilya tells him.

It makes Hollander glance up.

He’s looking at Ilya like he got caught in the middle of putting his mask back on. 

But at least he’s looking at Ilya.

“Yeah,” Hollander mumbles. “See you.”

Ilya pauses, just for a moment. There’s something about Hollander, something in his eyes. 

He opens his mouth – to say… something.

Nothing comes out.

Something about Hollander’s eyes –

Something –

Ilya turns to leave. 

After a few steps he almost turns –

The door closes softly behind him.

The hallway is quiet.

That was –

No.

It wasn’t anything. 

Ilya can feel the bruises throbbing under his skin. 

Hollander’s mouth is still on his throat. 

Chapter End Notes

Was that little pop my heart breaking or just a bubble bursting?

I don't even know what to say other than - they're still so young. They have their whole lives ahead of them.
That's a lot of time to figure yourself out and learn how to communicate.
But they're still them, so it's gonna take a while.

I'm wholly unprepared for Shane's last week in Moscow, except I'm already halfway through writing it.
And what comes after. (Chapter count this, chapter count that, etc., etc.)
And drafts for a sequel that is endangering both my sanity and my thesis.
(I love it tho, don't take it away from me please!)

Also, all my love to everyone who reads this, leaves kudos, and especially those of you who comment. It makes my whole day every damn time. I kick my feet, I get tears in my eyes and I'm so happy we're in this together.

 

Home team managed to claw their way up one rank in our league table, and then got absolutely demolished by the #1 team in the first round of the play-offs. Proud of them still, they fought bravely.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Sometimes, things end.
Sometimes, they don't.

Moscow, August 2007

The door clicks shut. Shane keeps his hand on the handle for way too long.

He doesn’t know why. Rozanov is already gone. He heard his footsteps on the stairs, quick and confident, and then the building door downstairs opening and closing.

Still, Shane stands there.

The apartment is quiet now.

Too quiet.

He lets go of the handle and rubs his palm against his sweatpants.

He walks back into the living room automatically. The couch is still messy from where they’d been sitting earlier. One of the pillows has slid onto the floor. Rozanov’s tea cup is still on the coffee table. The TV screen is dark. 

Shane looks past his own reflection.

The microwave clock in the kitchen reads 5:17 p.m. His parents won’t be back until tomorrow.

The jar of raspberry jam is still sitting on the dinner table.

His breathing is the only sound filling the air.

Good. Great.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Everything is fine.

The experiment is over.

That was the point.

He sits down on the sofa. Something in his lower back aches.

Shane freezes.

The sensation is dull and deep, a soreness that definitely wasn’t there last night. It spreads when he takes another step, down his thighs and around his hips.

Right. That.

Images flash through his mind before he can stop them.

The mattress shifting.

Rozanov’s hand around his wrist.

That stupid little smirk of his when Shane – 

He inhales sharply.

Nope. No.

Absolutely not. 

Still, he sits there and stares at the mug like it personally offended him. For a good long while. Like he’s not really present inside his own body. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He needs to get his shit together and focus.

It’s not that complicated, Shane. It was just an experiment – Experiments produce data. You learn something new and then experiments end. That was the agreement.

He gets up to walk upstairs. Each step makes the ache in his body more obvious. By the time he reaches his room, Shane is hyperaware of his own body to the point it makes him want to strip off his skin. He crosses his bedroom and disappears into the bathroom. He doesn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. Instead, he pulls his shirt off over his head.

The bruises on his hips are still there. Wider than his own fingers.

There are some faint red marks on his chest. 

A small hickey just behind his ear.

For a while, Shane just stares at himself like he’s another person entirely. 

Then he puts his shirt back on. Goes back to the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed. 

The sheets are still tangled. Of course they are. His brain offers him another memory he did not ask for.

Rozanov leaning over him.

Hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead.

The mole on his cheek.

The cross dangling from his necklace.

His lips –

Shane squeezes his eyes shut.

Stop.

Just – Stop.

He forces himself to inhale slowly through his nose. 

4 seconds to inhale, he counts and then holds his breath, 7 seconds. 

Then he exhales through his mouth. Six. Seven. 8 seconds.

It’s instinct at this point. Whenever the pressure in his chest gets too much. He learned it so long ago, he can barely remember the therapist’s face. 4-7-8 and the sound of skates on ice echoing in his head.

… Five. Six. Seven. – One. Two…
…Three. Four. – One. Two. Three. Four…
… Five. Six. Seven. Eight…

Usually, it works. Usually, the tightness in his chest loosens after a few cycles.

This time it doesn’t.

Shane inhales again. It feels like the air isn’t going all the way down into his lungs.

Skates on ice. Metal cutting into the smooth surface. A stick hitting the puck. 

… He hasn’t heard it all morning. 

It wasn’t much more than faint humming last night. 

Suddenly it’s too loud. 

It’s never been too loud before.

His chest feels tight.

Too tight.

Shane presses a hand against his sternum and forces himself to exhale.

He keeps counting. 

This is fine.

He is okay. He just needs to think about this logically.

Facts. Stick to the facts.

Fact number one: He had sex.

Shane stares at the floor between his socked feet.

There is absolutely no way around that. He looked it up. Specifically. Extensively, even. Friday night. And again Saturday morning. Just to be sure. There were multiple definitions involved and suddenly it feels like none of them leave room for technical loopholes.

What happened this morning –

He swallows.

That counted.

There is absolutely no possible interpretation under which that did not count.

Sure, the first time around he’d willfully ignored the part on Wikipedia where the page for ‘Sexual intercourse’ included oral sex. Back home, the guys in the locker room don’t count it, so why would Shane?

But they do count –

Which means –

Shane is not a virgin anymore.

The thought lands in his brain like a dropped weight.

His stomach flips.

It’s not like he was particularly attached to his virginity.

Or even concerned with it at all. 

Before this summer, that is. 

God, this is fucking stupid.

Shane stands up abruptly and starts pacing.

Okay.

Fine.

Fine.

That was the point.

Practice. That’s what this was.

Practice for when he eventually has sex with someone he actually wants to have sex with.

With a girl. Obviously.

This thing with Rozanov was just – Circumstantial. Convenient.

Inevitable, if you consider what Wikipedia had said. Two teenage boys with too much curiosity, constantly pitted against each other, constantly in proximity to each other. This was just tension, relief and an experimental framework. That’s all. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

He keeps pacing.

At some point the light outside the window turns orange.

He doesn’t remember when that happened.

There’s the Kinsey scale.

The thought appears in his head uninvited.

Zero to six.

Zero is exclusively heterosexual.

Six is exclusively homosexual.

Most people fall somewhere in between.

‘1: Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual’

The one suddenly looks a lot less like a zero with statistical noise.

… The zero seems kinda homophobic anyway. 

Shane isn’t – Shane is a one. And not homophobic.

He stops pacing.

That doesn’t mean anything anyway.

That’s population data.

Statistical distribution.

It doesn’t apply to individual cases without a pattern.

And one data point does not establish a pattern.

He latches onto that.

Yes. Exactly. One data point.

That’s all this is.

One data point under unusual circumstances. Controlled variables. Limited timeframe. Experimental conditions. Data gathered for when he will need it in the future.

With a girl.

He exhales. Better.

It’s not like sex automatically has to mean something. It only means something if you care about the person. Except –

The problem is that it didn’t feel like data collection.

It felt –

Shane presses his hands over his face.

No. Nope.

Not going there.

Rozanov was just part of the experiment.

The apartment grows darker while he stands there. At some point the streetlights outside flick on. Shane realizes he never turned the lights on inside.

He should probably eat something.

He doesn’t.

Instead he sits at his desk and stares at nothing for a while. Shane stares at the ceiling.

Maybe it would be easier to deal with if –

If Rozanov was still here.

Just for a second – 

Shane shuts his eyes. That doesn’t even make sense.

He gets up and starts pacing again. Then he tries the breathing exercise again.

It still doesn’t work. 

Hours pass like that.

Hours pass without air in his lungs and his pulse through the roof.

Thought loops chasing each other in circles.

It was just practice. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything about him. It definitely does not mean – 

The word appears anyway.

Gay.

Shane’s stomach drops like he just accidentally stepped off a cliff.

No.

Absolutely not.

That is not what this is.

That is not what happened.

Hockey players aren’t gay, remember?

And Shane is, first and foremost, a hockey player.

He drags a hand through his hair.

Okay.

New question: Do you regret it?

The thought appears suddenly.

Shane freezes.

Yes.

Obviously yes.

That’s the answer.

… That should be the answer.

He waits for the certainty to arrive.

It doesn’t.

His stomach twists.

Because the problem is – He doesn’t.

Not really.

The realization hits him like cold water.

He should regret it.

He should feel disgusted or horrified or something equally decisive.

Instead all he feels is terrified. Terrified of what that lack of regret might mean. 

Shane stands there for a long time. The apartment is completely dark now.

Eventually he checks the clock on his nightstand. 11:43 p.m.

Six hours.

Six hours of this.

He exhales slowly.

It’s over now.

Rozanov is gone. The experiment ended. Everything can go back to normal. Less than a week until he flies back home. Everything will go back to normal.

Shane walks toward the bed. The sheets are still twisted into a chaotic mess. He should probably –

Yeah. He should change the sheets. That’s a completely normal thing to do.

He walks over and grabs one of the pillows so he can strip the case off of it. But when he lifts it, something makes him pause.

The pillow smells different. Faintly, but unmistakably.

Shampoo. Shower gel. Detergent. Sweat. Smoke. Cold air. 

Something sharper underneath.

Shane’s stomach twists.

His pillow smells like Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya Rozanov, who had just been here this morning.

Who had been so – 

Who had made him feel so –

Like he’s still here.

Shane’s fingers clench around the pillow.

He should really change the sheets.

He knows that.

He knows he should get up.

Instead he tips sideways onto the bed.

Just for a minute.

His face ends up pressed against the pillow.

The smell is stronger there.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut.

Rozanov always smells a little like the cold air at the ice palace.

His chest tightens again.

His shoulders start shaking before he even realizes what’s happening.

The first tear hits the pillowcase before he realizes he’s crying.

He doesn’t know what he’s crying about.

Everything.

Nothing.

Too much.

His hands curl into the sheets.

Outside, somewhere in the street below, a car drives past. The apartment is otherwise silent.

It was supposed to be practice. Just an experiment. Only for the summer.

It wasn’t supposed to make him feel like this.

Exhaustion eventually drags him under.

*****

The ringing drags Shane out of sleep.

For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. Dim morning light spills into the room, from where the curtains are half open in front of the window. His head feels thick and heavy, like he barely slept at all.

The phone keeps ringing.

Shane groans and rolls onto his side, fumbling across the nightstand until his fingers close around it. The screen lights up.

Mom.

Of course.

He clears his throat before answering. “Hey mom.”

“Shane.” His mother’s voice comes through the speaker, there is noise around her. “Did I wake you?” She sounds suspicious.

He scrubs a hand over his face, “…No. Of course not.” He glances over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. 9:33 a.m. Shane usually isn’t the type to sleep in.

“Good. We just landed.”

The words make something in his stomach twist. They’re back already.

“We should be home in an hour and a half, tops,” she continues. “Have you eaten?”

“Of course.” Shane rubs his eyes.

“Smoothie?”

He pushes himself upright. The sheets are tangled around his legs. Something in his lower back aches when he shifts.

“Yeah, mom. With kale.”

“Did you do any conditioning this weekend?” she asks.

Shane presses his thumb into the corner of his eye. “…Yeah.”

“What did you do?”

There’s a pause. He hadn’t expected a follow-up.

“Running mostly,” he says finally.

“How far?”

“Just the usual route.”

Another pause. Shane can practically hear her evaluating the answer. 

“You should have added some weight training. I can drop you off at the arena gym later.”

“Okay,” Shane says.

“Good.” Airport noise crackles faintly through the speaker. Shane glances down at the sheets in his lap. “See you soon, dear.”

“Bye, mom.” 

She hangs up. Shane lowers the phone slowly. The apartment is silent again. He drops back down into bed. His pillow smells faintly like detergent. And something colder underneath.

Fuck that.

Then he exhales and swings his legs out of the bed. His hips ache when he stands.

Fuck that too.

Shane presses his lips together. He should definitely change the sheets.

He has a little over an hour to make everything look normal again.

Himself included.

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

Sveta is lounging on the velvety chair in front of her dresser when Ilya comes into the room. She’s fiddling with a necklace. Her finger nails are painted gold today.

She meets his eyes through the mirror before turning around and gesturing at her bed with one arm. Like a therapist bidding her patient to take a seat before they start their session. 

He sits down. The sheets are dark red. Satin. He runs his hands over them.

She doesn’t say anything and just looks at him expectantly, perfectly groomed eyebrows slightly raised. He can practically feel the way her eyes linger on the bruises on his throat.

But Ilya doesn’t say anything either. He just looks back at her. 

Usually, there’s some kind of music playing in Sveta’s room. 

Not today. 

The room smells like her perfume.

“You ignored my text,” she says, finally breaking the silence. 

Ilya lets his gaze drift toward the window. There’s noise coming from the courtyard.

“What text?” He says without looking at her.

“The one asking you how things went on Saturday,” her voice is sharp. “With Shane Hollander,” she adds.

Ilya wants to roll his eyes at the way Sveta always uses Hollander’s full name. Like he’s a brand or something. 

“I thought you’d come over after,” she pushes on. 

Fuck. Ilya’s eyes flicker back to her, then to the ceiling. There’s the familiar glue residue of glow-in-the-dark stars long since gone. He knows his silence is damning, but he has no clue what to say either.

“... Oh my god. You stayed the night,” there’s surprise and amusement in her tone as she voices her deduction. “You would have come over in any other case. You slept there.”

“... Yeah. I did.” Ilya finally looks over at her. She’s leaning forward in her chair now, regarding him.

“So how was your little sleepover?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Come on, Ilyusha. You promised to tell me,” Sveta sighs. “... Sasha is coming over later.”

Ilya knows Sveta isn’t above low blows. Doesn’t mean they don’t still knock the air out of his lungs when they happen. He scowls at her and she just lifts an eyebrow.

He can do this. They talk about sex all the time. Sveta knows pretty much everything about Ilya’s sex life, down to the dirtiest details – and Ilya knows the same things about her. This is normal. This was just about sex.

He swallows, then lets a suggestive grin spread over his face.

It makes her smile. Good.

“Barely made it through the door before he got on his knees for me,” Ilya tells her. 

Sveta snorts, “Damn, Shane Hollander, I did not think you had it in you.” She crosses her legs and puts her elbow on her knee, leaning in further. “And he was good enough this time around to make you want to stay over?”

Ilya shrugs, “He said he had more things he wanted to try, so…”

“Oh, so you spent the whole night fucking?” There’s a mischievous little flicker in her eyes.

He should just say yes. Instead he hesitates. 

Sveta notices. 

The longer she looks at him, the more it feels like his throat is closing up. Bile rising up or something. It’s irritating.

Her head tilts slightly.

“Oh my god,” she says slowly. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“You didn’t actually spend the whole night fucking at Shane Hollander’s place.”

Ilya scoffs. “What, you think I went there to play chess?”

Sveta’s smile widens. “So what happened in between rounds?”

“... Nothing.”

“There must have been something.”

“There wasn’t.”

“So the two of you just stared at each other for the rest of the time?”

He rolls his eyes and looks back toward the window. 

“... We watched a movie.” The words come out before he can stop them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sveta stiffen for a moment.

“…You watched a movie.”

“Yeah.”

“With Shane Hollander.”

“Yes,” he sighs, glaring at her.

“And then you stayed the night.”

Ilya shrugs again, suddenly very interested in one of the decorative pillows she keeps on her bed. “It got late.”

Sveta studies him for a long moment. Then a slow, knowing smile spreads across her face. “So then, Sunday afternoon, you didn’t answer my text because…?”

He keeps turning the pillow over in his hands. No use in lying to her now, probably. 

“Because I was still there.”

“Wow,” she looks at him with a small smile. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” her smile is bigger now. She leans back in her chair. “So, those other things he wanted to try… How did that go?”

Ilya almost feels like he’s back on solid ground. Except then he opens his mouth and starts to say, “Sunday morning we –”

The words get stuck in his throat. He pulls the floor out from under himself somehow. 

Just for a second, Hollander creeps into Ilya’s thoughts. 

The way his mouth had felt, the way he had been so intent – 

He pushes the thought away.

Sveta’s brows are back to climbing up her forehead. She twists one of her ginger curls around her fingers and waits for him to go on. 

But Ilya doesn’t. 

He just sits there, with his mouth half open, like a fucking idiot. 

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not –”

He stops. Just for a second.

“I’m not,” he repeats, sharper this time. 

Fuck. 

“... How about I just imagine the details for that one then?” She offers, voice a little softer than before. 

He looks down at his hands. Flexes his knuckles. 

It drives him mad sometimes, the way Sveta always knows exactly what to say. 

He hates her.

He loves her so much.

After a while, Ilya clears his throat. “Pervert,” he mumbles, aiming for humor, trying to dissolve the strange tension that crept into the room.

Sveta isn’t done with it yet. “... You are okay though, right?” 

“It’s just sex, Sveta.” The words come out too fast. “And I was more than okay, I’ll have you know.” – can this fucking conversation just be done already? – “Besides, it’s over now.”

At that, she tilts her head and narrows her eyes slightly. “It is?”

It – 

Yeah.  It is. 

Of course it is. 

It has to – 

Ilya swallows. He schools his expression into one of casual annoyance. “He’s going back to Canada,” he shrugs. “And half of Moscow is still waiting for me to fuck them, so…”

For a second, neither of them says anything.

Sveta just hums under her breath and turns back around to the necklace she was fiddling with earlier, her reflection shifting in the mirror.

She doesn’t look back at him. “Mmh,” she says lightly. “Sure.”

There’s a knot sitting somewhere in Ilya’s stomach now. Tight. Heavy.

He suspects Sveta knows exactly what it’s about, better than he does. 

Ilya scowls at the back of her head.

Fuck her for that.

His gaze drifts to the clock on her wall. 

Practice tomorrow. 

Hollander will –

Ilya pushes himself to his feet.

Sasha is probably gonna show up here soon. 

“It’s nothing,” Ilya says to Sveta’s back. 

The words leave a strange aftertaste in his mouth. 

In the mirror, he can see the way she purses her lips and shakes her head. 

She doesn’t keep pushing.

******************************

Moscow, August 2007

Shane gets to the rink early. He always does. Still, there are already a few cars at the parking lot as he and his mother arrive. This close to the season starting up again, it’s gotten busier. The little flags outside the entrance are getting whipped around by the wind, it’s making the late August day feel a little colder than it actually is. 

Inside, the hallway lights buzz faintly overhead. Shane can hear the hollow little ‘ting’ of a puck ringing off the goalpost coming from deeper inside the building.

Everything is perfectly normal.

Same as always.

His mother turns down the hallway toward the offices while he walks on in the direction of the locker room. 

A few guys are already there. Toivanen is taping up his stick in a strangely complicated pattern. Volkin, Marchenko and Fedorov’s stalls all have their bags in them. The goalies are probably already on the ice today. 

Galkin and Vasilevsky are talking to each other in Russian. They seem relaxed. Galkin is hunched over his left skate with a screwdriver in hand.

Toivanen looks up at the sound of the door and nods at Shane. 

Shane nods back, dropping his bag in his stall.

He starts unpacking automatically. Tape. Stick. Practice jersey. His hands move on their own as lays out his pads, routine. 

Every once in a while, Shane’s eyes drift to the locker room door. Then back to his gear. Then back to the door again. Each time it opens, his shoulders tighten without him meaning to do it. He tells himself he’s just waiting for the rest of the team to show up. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes. A few more players start filtering in. Shane holds his breath every time the door opens. The room slowly fills with noise. Zippers, laughter, fabric rustling. 

Then the door opens again.

Rozanov.

This time, Shane knows it’s him before he even looks up. Something about the rhythm of his footsteps. He glances toward him anyway.

Rozanov walks over, drops his bag into the stall next to Shane’s, just like he always does. He greets a couple of the guys, voice easy, casual. He greets Shane too, exactly the same as on any other day.

Shane tries to focus on putting his gear on, but his eyes keep wandering sideways. He watches Rozanov pull his T-shirt over his head. It’s impossible not to notice. A dark bruise under his collarbone, and two more, further up his neck. Rozanov isn’t even trying to hide it. 

Shane’s stomach flips.

Of course he isn’t the only one who notices.

“Ни фига себе, Розанов,” Vasilevsky sounds impressed. Next to him, Galkin snorts.

“Что?” Rozanov asks. 

“Твоя шея, бро,” Vasilevsky says, pointing at his neck. 

Galkin rolls his eyes, “Don’t let some girl’s boyfriend kill you before season even starts. If you are dead, who will beat Hollander at championships next year?” He nods his head towards Shane for added effect. They’re laughing. 

Rozanov glances down, then reaches up and rubs the spot with his thumb like he’s just noticed it.

“No boyfriend to worry about,” he says lightly. Then, with a smirk, he adds “This time, I think.”

Shane feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.

No one knows that he – 

Shane presses his lips together.

He focuses very carefully on taping his stick blade.

As soon as Shane is done getting geared up, he heads to the ice. Preferring to wait for practice to start out on the rink instead of in the locker room. 

The ice under his skates is still mostly smooth. Only around the creases the goalies have already cut it up. He loves the sound it makes.

But the familiar smell of the sharp, cold air makes his chest tighten a little. 

Shane has changed his sheets. 

Mostly.

Just the pillowcases –

More skates are hitting the ice. Pucks get smacked around and bounce off the boards. He focuses on that as he stretches. 

Coach Kharlamov blows his whistle. For a moment, everything settles into place.

The rhythm of skating.

The weight of the stick in his hands.

The glide of the ice beneath him.

Drills start. Line rushes. Passing patterns. Positioning. 

And it feels –

Exactly the same.

Shane takes a pass from the boards and redirects it across the ice without thinking.

Rozanov is already there.

He catches it cleanly and snaps it toward the net in one motion.

Goal.

The play happens so quickly it’s almost automatic.

Like it always does. Like it did during the exhibition tournament. Like it did all through the practices last week.

Shane pushes off again.

They run the drill a second time.

And again, he knows where Rozanov is before he even looks. Sometimes he doesn’t look at all. Just the sound of his skates. The shift of movement in his peripheral vision. Instinct. It used to happen almost without him noticing.

Now he’s painfully aware of it. Every time.

“Shane!” his mother’s voice cuts across the ice.

He turns his head.

“You’re drifting too far left. Stay in the lane.”

“Got it,” he calls back.

The reminder lands like a jolt. He is being watched. Always.

They run another sequence, and the puck slides across the ice. Rozanov intercepts it and flicks it back toward Shane without looking.

Shane catches it on the blade of his stick.

Perfect.

It shouldn’t feel this easy.

*****

Practice wraps up a little while later. Most of the team heads straight for the locker room, but Shane stays on the ice. He always does. A few extra laps. A couple more shots. Just until the Zamboni guy shows up. The rink is quieter now, every sound he makes echoes through the arena.

Eventually, he heads back to the lockers. By the time he finishes showering and changing, the room is mostly empty. Shane gathers some of the gear that needs to be returned – the helmet, his sweaty jersey – and heads down the hallway toward the equipment room. 

His mother will still be in a meeting with Kharlamov and the other assistant coaches. No need to rush. 

The hallway is quiet.

He pushes open the equipment room door.

Rozanov is standing in front of one of the shelves near the entrance, rifling through a pile of pads.

Shane considers turning back around. 

The equipment room is as cramped as he remembers it. Narrow aisles between racks of gear. The smell of rubber and detergent hanging heavy in the air.

The door swings shut behind him with a soft click.

Rozanov turns around.

They stare at each other.

No one says anything.

The silence stretches.

Why is the equipment room so small?

There should be more space here.

There never is.

They’re standing too close to each other. 

Closer than they need to be.

They both know it.

Neither moves.

Rozanov’s expression is hard to read. A slightly raised eyebrow. 

Shane’s breath catches.

There’s a twitch at the corner of Rozanov’s mouth. 

Of course he’d notice that.

Shane feels frustration rise in his chest.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

They already did this.

The whole weekend was supposed to –

He steps forward before he can think about it.

Rozanov also takes a step. 

Everything happens so fast.

One moment they’re just standing there, and the next Shane’s back is pressed against the door, with his hands in Rozanov’s hair. 

They’re kissing. 

As if something is pulling them together.

Like it’s inevitable.

Like it’s the same way it’s always been.

– Except it isn’t. 

For a moment Shane forgets everything else. The rink. The helmet that’s now lying on the floor. His mother and the other coaches, just down the hallway. 

Nothing exists other than Rozanov’s mouth on his own, and his warm hands fisted in Shane’s T-shirt. 

Then reality crashes back in.

It shouldn’t take effort to pull away. 

It does. 

“This shouldn’t still be happening,” Shane says, breath uneven.

Rozanov just looks at him for a moment. His chest rises and falls once, slow and deep. Something briefly flickers through his eyes before he lowers his gaze to Shane’s mouth again. Then that familiar crooked smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“Why not?” he asks.

Shane runs a hand through his damp hair, frustrated. “Because it’s over,” he says. “That was the whole point.”

Rozanov shrugs slightly, casually leaning against the shelf of gear next to him. “Maybe.”

His tone makes Shane feel even more irritated. Like none of this is a problem. Like it proves something.

Shane shakes his head. “We agreed this was done.” 

He doesn’t even sound convincing to himself.

“We did?” Rozanov asks lightly, with that infuriating grin still perfectly in place.

Shane stares at him and opens his mouth – 

Like he’s about to admit something –

Then he stops himself. Bends down to pick the helmet and jersey back up. Steps past Rozanov to drop them onto a shelf and into the laundry, respectively.

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters under his breath. Then he pushes past Rozanov and opens the door.

The hallway outside suddenly feels way too bright.

Shane steps out without looking back.

He doesn’t let himself.

His chest is tight.

The worst part isn’t that it happened.

The worst part is just how easy it was.

How natural.

Somewhere behind him, in the cramped equipment room, Rozanov is probably still standing there smirking.

Like none of this changes anything. 

*****

Technically speaking, Shane is still grounded. His mother reminded him several times already since his parents returned from Sochi on Monday. Two times specifically before he just left the apartment. 

Luckily for him, his dad pointed out how they’ll be leaving Moscow in just a few days, and isn’t it so nice that Shane managed to make friends here, Yuna? Ultimately, she gave in. Very reluctantly. With a lot of extra stipulations and reminders and don’t eat any junk food, think of your nutrition plan and warnings not to come back late.

The way to the café is familiar, two stops by metro and a few minutes of walking. It’s strange to think about how he’d technically been here just a little over a month ago to meet with some of the guys. Now it feels like a whole lifetime has passed since then.

The late August air is warm, the sun is high in the sky. Bright against the washed-out blue visible between the apartment blocks that crowd the area. He can see the faded little sign above the door coming into view, with Radoslav already waiting underneath it. It’s only about three seconds later that Volkin comes walking from around the corner. 

“Hollzy! Radek!” Volkin yells and stretches his arms out. “Missed you guys in the past…,” he checks his watch, “Sixteen hours. Damn!”

Shane snorts, and then laughs a little as Radoslav gently checks Volkin the shoulder before hugging him, for ‘being a public nuisance’. Shane hugs both of them before he can overthink it. Volkin laughs in surprise and claps him on the back hard enough to rattle his ribs. Radoslav freezes for half a second before returning the gesture, one hand briefly squeezing Shane’s shoulder. No one comments on it though, and as soon as the door is open, Volkin is already halfway into some story about some concert he wants to go to. 

The place looks exactly the same as the last time they came here. Wooden tables in all shapes and sizes, and large arched windows that face the streets on two sides of the room. Behind the counter sits the same little old lady, who barely bothers glancing up at them. 

They sit down on the same round table in the corner between the windows. Volkin hogs the chair that faces the room, and Shane is happy to sit in a warm, sunny spot. 

For several minutes, he describes a save he made during practice the night before. At some point he starts misappropriating the salt shaker, pepper grinder and some cutlery to demonstrate angles and positioning. 

“But, if you had been over here,” Shane interrupts him and moves a spoon, “you wouldn’t have needed to dive like that, right?” Volkin ignores his input but Radoslav starts to chuckle quietly, mumbling about how Volkin must be blind to the puck to get into that situation in the first place.

The old lady shuffles over with her notebook. Shane still can’t read the menu, but he knows what he wants this time. With only a little bit of assistance from Radoslav, he manages to order, “Пельмени и чай, пожалуйста.” 

Volkin changes his order twice and by the end of it, Shane is convinced he must have ordered half the menu. Radoslav orders the same thing as Shane, minus the horrible accent. 

For a while, the conversation sticks to hockey. The practices they’ve had since coming back from the expo tournament in St. Petersburg, and how Radoslav is thinking about switching from a P92 to a P88 curve on his stick. Shane thinks it would be great for his playstyle. 

At some point, the topic shifts toward the upcoming season. The Nizhny Novgorod team is probably holding a bit of a grudge against the CSKA after the expo. Volkin says he’ll shut them all out and Radoslav mentions that there’s another team here in Moscow that is a much more serious rival for the season titles. Shane tells them about how he’s hoping his team back in Canada will win their league championship in the upcoming season, before he moves on to a higher league after that.

The WJC comes up. There are selection camps next summer. All three of them are hoping to get in. Radoslav says he’s heard Rozanov is pretty much guaranteed not just a spot but the captaincy for the 2008 tournament already. Shane tells them his mother mentioned something similar. 

He doesn’t mention the way his stomach clenches at the thought of the other boy.

And he only wonders for a second whether he should put jam in his tea when it gets served.

“Doesn’t matter,” Volkin shrugs at one point during the WJC conversation. “I shut Rozanov out during practice all the time.”

And that devolves into a whole discussion about how they would all be on different teams and who was most likely to beat who and whatnot. Volkin says the Czech Republic would be guaranteed to win with him in the crease. Radoslav is a little less bold. Shane doesn’t know much about hockey in Slovakia specifically, but thinks Radoslav has solid chances to make it onto the roster.

Then it’s back to Canada when Volkin says he’s fine with getting his ribs broken by one of Shane’s slapshots, as long as that means he wins the WJC – but what are the goalies on Shane’s home team like? Does he torture them too? They all laugh. 

He doesn’t overthink his answers this time. Tells them that one of the goalies on his team insists on only speaking French while in the crease. And how another one goes to the same school as Shane and last year they were in the same English class. 

The pelmeni are delicious. There’s no alibi-cabbage soup this time. 

They talk about the differences between high school in Russia and high school in Canada. Most of the guys on the team here in Moscow apparently go to special sports-focused schools instead of regular high school. Meaning they see each other all day, every day for class and practice. Shane thinks he would actually kind of enjoy a school like that.

His own high school back in Ottawa technically has a team, but Shane plays for a junior league team instead of them. It’s a lot of early mornings and back-and-forth’s between school and training. 

Volkin says he’d sell part of his liver for the ‘American high school experience’. Red solo cups and parties and girls – and how about Shane? Does he party? Are there girls?

He almost chokes on one of his dumplings before answering. 

Shane does not party, but there are girls – in theory. 

He tells them about Jennifer from math class. Volkin asks if she’s hot, Radoslav asks if she’s nice. 

Before Shane can think of an answer, Volkin starts laughing at Radoslav, because apparently, “Radek doesn’t even like nice girls, which is a shame because nice girls would love him.” 

Shane guesses this is about the girl from Lipovsky’s party that they mentioned last month. 

“You could have asked her out when we were in –” Volkin starts.

Radoslav cuts him off, “No I could not! With all her friends there to see me get rejected?” He shudders. “No thank you.”

“But would you ask her if her friends weren’t around?” Shane wonders. “Even if you think she will reject you?”

Volkin just snickers quietly while Radoslav takes a moment to think before he answers, “Yes, I think so. I just kind of – want to put it out there, if that makes sense?” He briefly drums his fingers on the table and then adds “Maybe we’d still end up as friends, even if there’s nothing romantic or sexual about it. She’s really cool.”

“Understatement of the century,” Volkin laughs.

Shane thinks about what Radoslav said for a bit while poking at his last dumpling. 

“What if…,” he starts, clears his throat and then tries again, “What if it’s the other way around?”

Radoslav furrows his brow, “The other way around how?”

Volkin, however, seems to understand immediately. There’s a sly smile spreading over his face. “Sexual but not friendly, huh?”

“... Yeah.”

Radoslav seems a little rattled by the idea, whereas Volkin lets out a low whistle. “Damn Hollzy, I thought all your game was on the ice.” 

Shane frowns at that. The dumpling on his plate slowly disintegrates under his fork.

He doesn’t look up.

“Maybe you could get friendly over time?” Radoslav suggests tentatively. 

“... And if you can’t?”

“Then it depends,” Volkin folds his hands under his chin, still smirking. “How hot is she and how good is the sex?”

This time, both Radoslav and Shane’s faces scrunch up in tandem. 

Volkin doesn’t seem bothered by the reaction. “If she is really hot, you are legally required to make terrible decisions.”

Radoslav groans quietly and rubs his forehead. “Please never give relationship advice to anyone.”

“What?” Volkin protests. “It’s true.”

“You are absolutely not helpful.”

Shane huffs out a laugh despite himself, pushing his plate away now that the last dumpling has been reduced to crumbs. 

“So your official advice,” Shane says eventually, “is to make terrible decisions.”

“Correct.” 

“And live with the consequences,” Radoslav adds dryly.

Volkin points at him with his fork. “Exactly. See? Radek gets it after all.”

Shane lets the conversation drift away from there. Volkin immediately starts talking about something else – some DJ he’s discovered recently, and something about sneaking into some rave. Radoslav argues how it’s a terrible plan, mostly because Volkin has already failed at sneaking into places several times before. There was a joke in there somewhere, probably. Shane knows it’s funny, but doesn’t react in time. When he does, the moment’s gone. 

Shane feels a bit out of it, and takes time to recalibrate. Only when the topic shifts back to hockey does he manage to get his head fully back into the game again. 

They’re talking about the last practice on Friday before Shane leaves Moscow. Volkin insists he’s going to shut everyone out just to make Shane miss him properly.

Eventually, the little old lady starts giving them dirty looks again. Time to leave.

As they get up, Volkin suddenly remembers that they won’t be able to text anymore once Shane is back in Canada. An absolute scandal, apparently. It leads to several minutes of digging around for phones and writing down email addresses and ICQ IDs. 

Volkin decides to walk to the metro station with them, even though he lives in the other direction. He bumps Shane’s shoulder and reminds him that there’s still practice on Friday. Radoslav says the same thing, quieter, like it’s meant to reassure him. It’s not really goodbye yet, but it’s definitely starting to feel like it. 

Before they split up, they hug again. Then Shane takes the train in one direction, Radoslav in the other. Volkin turns around to go back the way they came from. 

While he’s waiting for his stop, Shane can’t help but wonder at just how much can change in a month or two. 

There’s still one more practice on Friday.

******************************

Москва, Август 2007

Ilya doesn’t know what to expect from today’s practice. It should just be a regular Friday practice – the last one of the summer, before their schedules tighten up again and their coaches go back to yelling louder.

It’s not just a regular practice though. Because the entire summer wasn’t regular. Shane Hollander had waltzed into Ilya’s ice palace at the beginning of July and Ilya’s plans for the summer were irrevocably derailed. 

When he’d talked to Sveta on Monday, he had been… Nevermind. 

It was a fluke.

The equipment room on Tuesday confirmed that.

(– Or, it should have.)

He’d played what was probably the best hockey of his life so far over the past two months. And now that is ending. 

It shouldn’t matter.

Ilya is a league above everyone else one way or another.

He can enjoy the strange electricity one last time and then things will finally go back to being normal. There’s nothing more to it. Ilya’s made some improvements to his playstyle, and off the ice he’s made some experiences that were probably long overdue. He’s gonna get even better, and collect even more experiences from here on out. 

After today.

But right now, he’s in the locker room. Early, as a captain should be. Usually he arrives early but spends the extra time leading up to their practices in the gym. But now that the season is about to start again, it’s busier. He doesn’t feel like fighting over weights today.

So instead, he’s on the bench in front of his stall, messing around with a roll of tape while some of the other guys are slowly starting to arrive.

Hollander is one of the first to arrive. He always is. 

Volkin yells a greeting at him and Hollander smiles, nodding back.

He drops his bag down in the stall next to Ilya’s and starts changing.

Casual.

But if Ilya looks a little closer, he can still see the fading bruises his fingers left on Hollander’s hips peeking out above the waistband of his underwear. 

Good. 

Ilya starts his own pre-practice routine. More and more guys arrive. He doesn’t know if he’s more aware of Hollander today than usual. Because he’s always aware of him. It’s fucking annoying. Like an itch you can’t ever scratch away.

Except it will be gone after tonight.

Ilya is out on the ice getting warmed up long before the coaches come out of the tunnel. When they do, Kharlamov’s whistle cuts sharply through the cold air. 

There’s no fanfare yet. That probably comes later. At the end.

For now, drills start. 

The first one is simple, three-man passing down the ice and back again. Basic warm-up stuff. Ilya lines up with Kirya and Kolya on one side, while Hollander ends up in the other group with Tóth and Sokolov. 

Ilya and his wingers are passing back and forth, weaving around each other like gears in a well-oiled machine. 

But he can see it out of the corner of his eye.

The way Sokolov sends the puck to Hollander. The way Hollander receives it cleanly, barely even having to look, and then flips it toward Tóth. 

Who almost misses it. 

To be honest, no one else probably would have even noticed. Except Hollander. Tóth still gets the puck on his blade after all. 

But he should have been half a second faster. 

Ilya clicks his tongue quietly, and catches a pass from Kolya while they’re moving along the ice. 

When their two lines cross at center ice, Hollander looks at him.

Only for a moment. 

After a while, Kharlamov’s whistle rings through the air. They rotate.

During a board battle drill along the half-wall, Ilya coasts toward the boards to wait for his turn. 

He ends up right in front of the penalty boxes.

A month ago, he was sitting right there with Hollander while Kharlamov had banned them from participating in practice. 

Two weeks ago, in St. Petersburg, they’d ended up in another penalty box after Hollander had hooked the Nizhny Novgorod right winger that had landed Ilya in the sin bin half a minute earlier. He’d almost looked a little smug then, sitting so close they touched. 

Now the box door is closed. It’s empty. 

Hollander skates past him to get into position for his turn on the drill, a little closer than strictly necessary. 

The whistle again, “Centers. Circle.” 

Ilya skates toward the nearest face-off dot, rolling his shoulders once as he settles into position. A few of the other guys drift toward the boards to wait their turn.

Hollander glides into the circle across from him.

Of course.

Vlascenko gets in position beside them to drop the puck.

They crouch over their sticks. Hollander sets his blade flat on the ice, shoulders loose like he’s not trying very hard at all.

Ilya watches his hands.

Hollander’s lower hand slides down the shaft a little.

Backhand sweep.

Interesting. Ilya adjusts his own grip. 

The puck drops and their sticks clash, but Hollander’s blade slips underneath and flicks the puck cleanly behind him. Tóth collects it and sends it back to Coach Vlascenko.

Hollander straightens up with the faintest hint of a smile. “Slow,” he mutters.

Ilya snorts and resets at the dot. “Lucky.”

Vlascenko tosses another puck down.

This time, Ilya leans harder into the draw, tying Hollander’s stick up instead of trying to win it clean. The puck skitters loose between their skates and Ilya kicks it back toward Kolya.

One – one.

Hollander bumps his shoulder lightly as they separate. “That was dirty,” he comments, but Ilya thinks he almost looks a little amused under his mask. 

“I think you like it,” Ilya shrugs.

They line up again. 

Hollander lowers his stance this time, blade angled differently. Forehand pull.

Predictable.

Ilya leans in a little closer over the circle. “How are your hips?” he whispers.

Hollander blinks. Just for a fraction of a second.

The puck hits the ice and Ilya snaps his stick down and sweeps it straight back.

Clean. He can hear Kirya whoop behind him as he receives it.

Ilya pushes upright and glances across the circle.

Hollander is watching him now, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“Distracted,” Ilya says mildly.

Hollander huffs out a laugh. “Asshole.”

His freckles crinkle over his nose. 

Ilya smiles as the next puck drops. 

This time Hollander beats him clean.

He swipes the puck out from between them before Ilya can even react.

Hollander taps his stick against the ice as he skates away. “Distracted, huh?”

Ilya watches him go, irritation buzzing pleasantly under his skin.

Good. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.

The final drill is a scrimmage. First team to three goals.

Kharlamov points his toward the benches, assigning lines. Players shuffle about, sticks tap the ice.

“Rozanov. Hollander. Lipovsky.” Kharlamov assigns a line of forwards, answered by groans from the bench. 

“That’s got to be cheating,” Volkin is throwing his hands up in the crease as they line up facing him.

The coaches are unconcerned with his complaints.

To Ilya’s left, Kirya is laughing and howling, still on that stupid wolf joke of his. Kolya is centering on the opposing line and looks about ready to strangle him over it.

Hollander is already perfectly positioned to Ilya’s right, simply waiting for the puck to drop. 

And it does.

Ilya wins the face-off in a clean sweep, pushing the puck forward to where Hollander is already moving through the neutral zone. 

The pass connects perfectly, exactly as it should. 

Abramov is on the opposing defense, but Hollander and Kirya drag him between them while Ilya cuts toward the slot. 

He doesn’t call for the puck.

He doesn’t need to.

It’s already sliding off Hollander’s stick toward Ilya’s blade – like it was planned.

It wasn’t. It never is.

Volkin is ready for it though. He jumps toward the top left corner and deflects Ilya’s shot. 

But he’s not quick enough to account for Hollander. 

The rebound slides off his pads back onto the ice where Hollander is lying in wait, backhanding it into the net a second before Volkin can cut it off with his knee. 

“Один,” someone calls from the bench.

Volkin shakes his head in mock disgust. “You two are insufferable.”

Ilya exhales slowly as they turn away from the net.

It’s not surprising.

It should be.

It isn’t.

It’s been this way for weeks now. 

But it feels different somehow. 

They line up again. 

The others put up a bit more of a fight this time around, but at some point Hollander picks up the puck behind Marchenko and their own net, and accelerates through center ice, long strides eating up the distance. 

Two defenders collapse toward him as he crosses the blue line.

Ilya drifts wide, letting them chase Hollander.

The pass comes behind his back.

Not even looking.

Ilya is already there, without even having thought about it first.

He taps it right back across the crease.

Hollander buries it.

“Два!”

Volkin slaps the ice with his stick. “Unfair,” he says loudly.

There’s laughter coming from the bench.

“Да ладно, Volkin! One last time!” Kirya is snickering as he passes the goalie on his way back to center ice. 

Kirya catches up to Hollander and slings an arm around his shoulder, “Wish we could keep you whole season, Hollzy.” He squeezes Hollander’s shoulder before parting from him and lining up. 

Hollander drifts to Ilya’s right, and Ilya shoots him a glance.

Hollander’s eyes are already on him. He nods at Ilya, and Ilya turns his head back forward for the face-off. 

One last time.

Good. That’s the point.

The final goal happens a few minutes later.

Hollander circles behind the net while Abramov and Vasilevsky scramble to keep up with him.

Ilya slows.

Just slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough to feel it.

He drifts into open space anyway.

For a second the ice feels… quiet.

Like everything is waiting.

Then the puck slides out from behind the net.

Perfect.

Of course it is.

Ilya barely has to move his stick.

Tap.

Goal.

“Три!” Someone yells at the same time Kharlamov’s whistle cuts through the rink.

Players coast to a stop, breathing hard.

Volkin pulls his mask up and stares at them both.

“Seriously,” he says. “How the fuck do you do that?”

Ilya shrugs and skates toward the boards.

It’s just good hockey.

One last time.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It has to not mean anything.

*****

Kharlamov calls them all to line up together as practice wraps up.

Coach Hollander is standing next to him, and once all the boys have settled, Kharlamov begins to speak in that gruff, somewhat monotone voice of his. He thanks her, curtly. Some of the guys start tapping their sticks against the ice.

The whole scene reminds Ilya of the day coach Hollander and her son were introduced to the team two months ago. Except this time, Shane Hollander is in the crowd of players with Ilya.

Coach Hollander thanks Kharlamov in turn, in many more words. Then the other staff, then the team, and “Thank you for taking Shane in this summer.”

Ilya can see Hollander’s shoulders tense up from where he’s standing a few meters away. He’d bet good money on the expression the other boy is probably making at being called on like that.

The strange tension dissolves almost immediately after, with guys turning and drifting off toward the locker room. 

Volkin skates up to Hollander, shoving at his shoulder. “I hate you,” he says. “Actually hate you.” Hollander laughs at him, breathless. Tóth joins them, saying something Ilya doesn’t quite catch. They start talking over each other as they head toward the tunnel.

Easy. Like this is just another practice. Which it is.

Ilya lingers a second longer on the ice. Just long enough for the noise to move ahead of him.

The locker room is louder than usual. Last practice before the new school year, before the season. Someone turns music on – probably Volkin. Someone else throws a towel – probably Kirya.

Ilya sits down in front of his stall and starts pulling off his gear.

Same routine as always. Gloves. Helmet. Jersey. Pads.

Don’t look to the side.

He looks anyway.

Hollander is there, half out of his gear, talking to Tóth across the room. Smiling.

Like nothing is different.

Like nothing happened.

Then for a second, Hollander glances over.

Their eyes meet.

Ilya thinks – 

Something. 

He doesn’t know what.

Hollander looks away first. 

A few minutes later, he disappears into the showers with some of the others.

Ilya finishes taking off his skates and moves to wash up as well. 

He keeps his eyes down. 

When he returns to the locker room, Volkin is hovering by the door.

“We’re heading out,” he says loudly to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Tóth adds. “Come on.”

There’s movement. Bags being zipped. Benches scraping.

Hollander pulls his shirt on, still talking, still half-laughing at something.

Then he grabs his bag. For a second, he pauses.

He doesn’t look at Ilya again.

Or maybe he does.

Ilya doesn’t check.

The door swings shut behind them.

The room is quieter now.

Not empty.

Not yet.

Ilya leans back against the lockers and stares at the space to his right.

Hollander’s stall is cleared out.

No bag.

No gear.

Nothing left behind.

Like he was never there.

A whole season.

Ilya exhales.

Better that way.

It didn’t mean anything.

Chapter End Notes

I don't even know what to say at this point. Like, what can I even say? I'm sorry?
The comments on the last chapter had me crying, and I'm so nervous to be posting this.

Shane's time is Moscow is officially over.
Two months in Russia for him, two months of writing this for me.

But this story isn't finished yet, and you guys already know they will meet again.
Next chapter will be an epilogue, at least kind of. A montage of all that happens until they come face to face again. All the thoughts, the feelings, the fallout.
I'm won't promise you a big happy ending - at least not yet. But know that, ultimately, I don't believe in anything else when it comes to these two (cough, sequel).

Make your bets now! What will happen? Will they figure anything out? Or are they just gonna pretend nothing happened?

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Sixteen months and an ocean apart.

Regina, December 2008

The air outside the practice rink is freezing cold as Shane steps through the door. It bites at his throat, sharp enough to make him wince. He should have brought a scarf, but the noise inside is overwhelming and he only needs a moment, just a second, before he has to go back.

There are only a few days left before the tournament starts.

Too many new variables. Too many moving parts.

But Shane can handle it.

He just needs a second.

People are lingering near the entrance, their voices carrying in the cold. Not quiet enough. Not what he’s looking for. He moves past them, toward the corner of the building. A few more steps –

Oh.

Oh no.

His body reacts before his brain can catch up. He stops. Sharp. Immediate. Heart too fast. Too loud.

Of course.

Ilya Rozanov stands a few meters away, leaning back against the building's concrete walls beneath a no smoking sign, a cigarette between his lips. One hand cups the lighter, shielding the flame from the wind.

For a second, he doesn’t look up.

Then he does.

Their eyes meet.

The flame catches.

***************

*********************************************

***************

Ottawa, September 2007

Home was exactly the same as when Shane had left two months earlier. The entryway was organized, shoes neatly stacked in the rack, jackets and coats hanging in the wardrobe. Four chairs around the kitchen table. Spotless counters. He had expected the fridge to be empty, or for dust to have built up, but clearly his parents had arranged for someone to prevent that. Everything really was the exact same as always.

Once in his room, Shane dropped his bags to the floor next to his desk. The same notepad was still sitting where he’d left it. Pens and pencils neatly organized. The light blue sheets on his bed tucked in tightly. A few hockey posters lined the walls, and the large Ottawa Centaurs one was still hanging perfectly centered above his bed.

Shane started unpacking immediately. He knew his mother was expecting him to have it done before dinner. Dirty laundry went into the hamper, clean clothes got refolded and put back into his closet.

His flow was interrupted when he pulled out the CSKA team jersey.

Instead of refolding it, he froze. Held it in both hands and just stared.

Холландер

24

The fabric was soft, the colors bright. He traced the embroidery with his thumb, slow and deliberate. Like it might feel different now. It didn’t. The star on the front. The ЦСКА. His name. His number. Still the same.

“Dinner in thirty minutes!” His mother’s voice made him drop the jersey.

Shane bent to pick it back up. After running the fabric through his fingers one last time, he hung it in the back of his closet, behind a row of his regular practice jerseys. Then he returned to his task.

When he pulled the Miracle DVD case out of his bag, he stalled again.

His fingers lingered on the plastic for a second too long before he slotted it back into place on the shelf, carefully aligned with the others. He focused on that instead – the straight line, the lack of dust – trying very hard not to think of anything else.

*****

Shane woke up at 3:30 a.m. on Sunday, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t go back to sleep. He had always been early to rise, but this was overkill. After tossing and turning for a long while, he gave up and stared at the ceiling in the dark until the first light of day started creeping in through the curtains.

His mother greeted him as he came down the stairs. In his usual spot at the kitchen table, a freshly laminated schedule was already waiting. Shane scanned it quickly. School blocks. Practice times. Travel days. Everything mapped out. He nodded once, more to himself than to her, then put it back down and pulled on his running shoes.

The route was the same one he had run countless times before. Now, for the first time, he noticed just how wide the roads in his neighborhood were. How empty. No one brushed past him on the sidewalk. No one cut in front of him. No voices he couldn’t quite understand. – No voices at all.

Just the steady rhythm of his own breathing and the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement.

His mother drove him to the rink in the afternoon, which would have been great if he hadn’t started feeling tired by 2 p.m.

The ice here was narrower than it had been in Moscow, but the smell was the same.

Cold. Clean. Familiar.

It should have been comforting.

And it was.

But at the same time, something about it felt –

No.

Shane clenched his eyes shut. Got to skating and to listening to his mother’s corrections. Nothing else to think about there.

*****

His sleep schedule stayed a mess for quite a while. But Monday already brought his first practice back with his own team, so he had to suck it up. He felt like a total outsider. Shane had missed their own training camp and the first few pre-season games, and neither the staff nor the other players were going to let him forget it anytime soon.

The locker room was familiar, but the jokes being thrown around didn’t make sense to him. He arrived early. Webber, one of their defensemen, had been the first to notice him as he walked through the door.

“Hollywood! Finally decided to show up, huh?”

Shane didn’t flinch. Just nodded. The same way he nodded at all the others who greeted him with grins and chirps. He changed quickly, methodically, sticking to routine. Left skate. Right skate. Tape. Stick.

On the ice, he missed a pass he absolutely should have made. Then another. By the third one, he wanted to scream. Wanted to snap his stick in half and start over from the beginning.

Instead, he reset. Adjusted. Tried again.

Coach Bouchard watched him for a moment before skating past. “You’re behind.” Not unkind. Not patient either.

“Catch up.”

*****

The first day back at school wasn’t anything special. Shane took some comfort in that. Unlike with his team, it was the first day back for everyone else too.

Most faces were familiar. Evan’s locker was next to his, just like the year before, and they had homeroom together again. He was telling Shane about his summer, about the trip his parents had taken him on, and Shane was barely listening.

He nodded at the right times. Said “yeah” when he was supposed to. Felt guilty about it.

“... and the beach was insane, like, you wouldn’t believe –”

“Cool,” Shane said, a second too late.

Evan didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t say anything.

“Where’d you end up going again?” Evan asked. “Russia, right?”

Shane hesitated.

“Yeah. Moscow.”

“How was it?”

There was a pause. Too long.

“Good,” Shane said.

Evan grinned. “Yeah? That’s sick. Must’ve been crazy over there.”

Shane nodded again. Crazy.

“Yeah,” he said. Then he opened his locker and focused on his books, aligning them carefully on the shelf, adjusting the edges until they sat perfectly straight. He kept fiddling with them a little longer than necessary. Evan kept talking. Shane tried to listen. He really did.

But all he could think about was – 

No.

He shut the thought down before it could fully form. Closed his locker a little harder than intended.

“See you in class,” Evan said eventually and Shane watched him walk away before then turned and headed in the opposite direction.

His schedule said French next. He already knew the room. He already knew the people. Becky M. and Laurent were in the same class again, and a few other people he knew were there too.

Jennifer smiled at him when he entered the room for his Math class the next period.

*****

From there, things went back to the usual rhythm. Morning runs. Protein shakes. School. Hockey practice. Homework. Extra practice with his mom on some days. A few more pre-season games where he was initially put on third line and had to work hard to claw his way back up to first by the official start of the season.

Even his sleep schedule went back to how it had always been after the first week back in Ottawa.

But some things –

Some things were different.

Off.

In the locker room, the training camp inside jokes slowly got replaced with new ones that Shane could join in on. Some of the guys kept calling him Hollywood, and Shane kept hating it and not saying anything. He found himself suddenly appreciating the ones calling him “Hollander” or “Hollzy” a lot more than he had before the summer.

It was only his second practice when the topic of girls got brought up again in the locker room. Shane got dizzy and left without showering when he realized he could relate to the guys now. And half a second later, he had to actively keep himself from throwing up.

On the ice too, a few little hiccups remained. Passes into empty space, skating too fast for his wingers to keep up.

Some nights, Shane woke up with his face pressed into his pillow and his arm stretched out toward the empty space next to him. He tried closing his eyes again, and his brain decided to interrupt the regularly scheduled sound of blades on ice with images of things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

A smirk. Blue eyes. A golden crucifix.

Rozanov’s voice, low and in Russian – words Shane didn’t understand, but that made his chest tighten anyway.

******************************

Москва, Сентябрь 2007

Ilya waited a respectful twenty-four hours after Shane Hollander walked out of his locker room for the last time before he tried to erase him from his brain.

He would have attempted it sooner, but Saturday morning he had to show up at school for the fucking Knowledge Day ceremony. The colonel didn’t care how or where Ilya spent his nights most of the time, but he cared about things like this. Appearances. Discipline. Being seen.

So Ilya put on the stupid button-up shirt Polina had ironed with a sour expression just a few minutes before it was time to leave.  He showed up. Stood in line. Listened to speeches that all sounded exactly the same as they did every year. Most of the team was here, suffering alongside him.

He slipped away as soon as he could.

Around the back of the main building, to where Kirya and Kolya were already smoking, arguing about something that didn’t matter. It turned into laughter within seconds, easy and thoughtless.

It was easy.

Almost too easy.

Ilya took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

“So where are we going later?”

*****

They ended up at one of the usual places that night. Too loud. Too full. Bodies everywhere. The bass drowned out anything he didn’t want to hear or think about. People pressed close, heat and sweat and alcohol hanging thick in the air. Ilya moved through it easily – drinking, laughing, letting himself be pulled wherever the night wanted him.

Sveta was there. Beautiful as always. Still a little mad at him, but not enough for it to really matter. It never lasted with her.

Sasha was there too.

Of course he was.

It didn’t take long.

No one noticed their hands in a place like this. No one noticed when they disappeared.

By the time they ended up in bed, Sasha was already halfway gone – smiling, flushed, saying something that sounded like 'finally'.

Ilya kissed him just to shut him up. Harder than necessary.

It was good. Sasha knew what he was doing. Ilya did too.

Just for a second, something flickered – some small shift in Sasha’s expression, like he had noticed something unexpected. 

Then it disappeared. Gone as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the rhythm of it, by the alcohol still buzzing under his skin.

It was exactly what Ilya had always thought it would be.

Sasha with his long limbs, porcelain skin, wicked mouth –

Nothing.

It was good.

Objectively good.

If something felt slightly off – if, for a second, Ilya thought his skin was too smooth, his hair not dark enough – 

That was the vodka.

Afterwards, they smoked in bed. Sasha didn’t care. His mother wouldn’t notice. She rarely did.

Ilya had stayed over before.

But not that night.

He left instead, like he always did. Texted Sveta on his way out. Walked forty minutes through the city, hands in his pockets, cigarette burning down between his fingers.

When he got to her building, he didn’t knock. Just stood there and waited. When the door finally opened, the look on her face was something he chose not to examine too closely.

*****

Practice felt the same. Mostly.

Kharlamov’s whistle cut through the cold rink air and the drills started as they always did – passing, positioning, repetition. Ilya fell into rhythm easily, slotted into line between Kirya and Kolya, took the puck when it came to him and moved without hesitation. Clean, fast, efficient. Exactly right. Plays unfolded the way they should, every movement, every pass landing as planned.

The pace picked up, and during a passing drill Kolya was just a fraction too slow getting open. Ilya didn’t compensate. The puck died on his stick as the opposing defensemen shuffled formation, the moment closing before it ever really had a chance to open.

“Faster,” Ilya said, already turning away to reset while Kolya rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. It got lost under the scrape of skates and the next whistle.

They kept going. Ilya kept the puck when passes were called – not always, but often enough for it to get noticed. Zhukov chewed him out about it, but his plays were clean. Kirya laughed and called him insufferable, Kolya just narrowed his eyes at him. It wasn’t like Ilya. – It wasn’t like he meant anything by it.

He stayed behind on the ice after the others started filtering out. Kharlamov gave him a look that probably meant ‘figure it out by tomorrow’, then left.

Ilya went for another lap. Then another. Then another after that. He could hear his teammates in the locker room, leaving one by one until the noise died and only the echo of his own skates cutting into the ice remained. He pushed harder, faster, leaning into the turns. Back and forth, and back and forth again, until his lungs started to burn.

He kept going.

It took the old man who ran the ice resurfacer showing up for Ilya to finally get off the ice and head into the locker room. The others were long gone. The space around him felt wrong without them – too open, too quiet.

He had stayed behind after practice countless times and it had never felt like this before.

In the showers, the water came out with a hiss when he turned the tap, loud against the tiles in the empty room. Ilya stood under it and turned the dial all the way up. Steam gathered, curled toward the ceiling, spilled out toward the locker room and fogged up the mirrors. The air grew thick, the water too hot, but he stayed where he was. Slowly exhaling as it hit his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Relentless, steady. His skin prickled under it, heat building, spreading, something sharp at the edges that he didn’t pull away from. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, bracing one hand against the tile, letting the pressure ground him.

For a moment, the world faded into the background. There was only Ilya and the water. Nothing missing, because this was all there was. No voices. No music. No – 

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut.

Nothing.

******************************

Ottawa, September 2007

There was no afternoon practice that day. Shane sat at his desk, trying to focus on his homework when a ding from his laptop alerted him to a new message.

mtj.vlkn: saw u lost ur game yesterday!

mtj.vlkn: sucks, miss us yet?

 

hollzy24: Sure. How’s practice?

 

RadekToth22: Not the same without you.

 

mtj.vlkn: boring :-(

mtj.vlkn: no more wolf sounds from kirya

 

RadekToth22: He’s still loud enough even without the howling.

 

hollzy24: I’m sure Volkin can keep up with the volume

 

mtj.vlkn: fuck u xoxo

Shane paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he smiled despite himself. He could still hear Lipovsky’s howling in the back of his mind, Volkin yelling to be heard over him.

He was supposed to leave soon – gym in forty minutes. Radoslav would probably log off to go to bed. His homework was still unfinished.

He didn’t close the window yet.

He could finish it later.

*****

Ottawa, October 2007

The drill was simple. Breakout, three passes, enter the zone, shot on net.

Shane picked the puck up along the boards and cut up the ice. His left wing, Roy, was already in position. Exactly where he should be. The pass connected perfectly and the play continued – clean, efficient, predictable, with Shane always three steps ahead.

But every once in a while, he had to slow down. Just a fraction. Had to force the timing back into place. 

Coach Bouchard nodded at him from the boards.

Shane reset at center ice.

It shouldn’t have felt this frustrating.

*****

mtj.vlkn: kirya tried 2 copy roz’s spin move again today

mtj.vlkn: ate shit immediately rofl

 

RadekToth22: He almost took Nikolai out with him.

 

hollzy24: Sounds about right

hollzy24: How does Galkin put up with him?

 

mtj.vlkn: kolya is a saint

 

RadekToth22: Did you forget about the part where he tried to trip Kirill straight after?

 

mtj.vlkn: no lol

mtj.vlkn: but he kept passing 2 him l8r

mtj.vlkn: saint

******************************

Москва, Октябрь 2007

It was easy. It always was.

Different place, different person, same rhythm. Ilya didn’t need to think about it anymore. His body knew what to do, when to move, how to adjust. He didn’t know her name and he didn’t care. She was sexy, she was funny, and that's all he needed to know.

She took him back to her place, to her bed, and everything landed where it should.

Until – for a fraction of a second, it didn’t.

She was underneath him and he could hear the way her breath hitched and shuddered. Ilya always paid attention. It was what made him so good at this. He knew how to move, where to put his hands and his mouth. But just for a moment, he was too slow. Half a beat behind. He could hear it in her breathing, even though she didn’t seem to consciously notice it.

Ilya corrected it immediately. Shifted, recalibrated, kept going.

It clicked back into place.

But the knowledge that it had happened stayed.

Afterwards, she said something. Ilya didn’t listen.

It had been good. He was satisfied. It was exactly what it was supposed to be, and Ilya was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

He reached for his cigarettes, already halfway out the door.

******************************

Ottawa, October 2007

Jennifer caught up to him a few seconds after Shane stepped out of the classroom.  She had been doing that more and more.

“You’re going to mess up the curve again, you know that?” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag.

Shane glanced at her. “The class is too large for that.”

“I don't know, Shane,” she said. “Mr. Avery already thinks the rest of us are underperforming.”

“That’s not my fault.”

Jennifer smiled. “It kind of is.”

They moved down the hallway together, weaving around other students, past the junction that led to where Shane knew Jennifer’s locker was. They had done this enough times now that it didn’t even feel like a choice anymore.

“The test on Thursday,” she added, “Did you study already?”

Shane shrugged slightly. “I know the material.”

“Of course you do.” She lightly bumped her shoulder against his. “Some of us need to actually work for it, you know.”

“You’ll be fine,” Shane said.

Jennifer looked at him for a second, then she snorted. “Wow. That was almost encouraging.”

Shane didn’t respond, but tried for a smile.

They kept walking. He knew her next class was Chemistry. The room was in the other direction.

“Big game this weekend, right?”

“Yeah. Friday.”

She shifted her books in her arms. “Home game, right? I’ll be there – if I survive the math test on Thursday.”

“You will.”

Jennifer smiled again, softer this time. “I sure hope so. I’d hate to miss it.”

They reached Shane’s locker. He spun the dial, opened it, and started switching out his books. Math went back inside. French and English came out. He straightened the stack, even though the edges were already perfectly aligned.

Jennifer leaned against the locker next to his and watched. “You do that every time,” she said.

“I like it when things are neat.” Shane shrugged, still adjusting one of his binders.

“I’m pretty sure this is, like, military grade,” Jennifer huffed a quiet laugh. There was no bite to it. Then she reached out, almost absentmindedly, nudging one of his notebooks.

Shane immediately moved to fix it. Her hand brushed his wrist as she pulled it back. – It was nothing.

Nothing.

Except his brain didn’t agree.

Yet again, skates on ice came to a screeching halt as his mind shifted to supply the image.

A different hand. Larger. Calloused. Sliding up his wrist, tangling with his.

Careful, but certain.

‘You think so loud.’

And Shane had looked at his lips, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the color – 

His breath caught. He froze.

Jennifer noticed and pulled her hand back further, holding it against her chest. “Uhm, sorry. – Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shane said, too fast.

She studied him for a second. “You sure?”

Shane pulled his sleeve down over his wrist. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Jennifer nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

She didn’t reach out again, but she didn’t move away either. Just stayed, like she always did, like she expected the moment to settle.

And it did.

Or it should have. This was normal. This was what it was supposed to be. Jennifer. Math class. Hockey games. Lockers. Easy conversation. Someone he already knew. Someone he got along with. Someone who – 

Who liked him.

A nice girl.

Shane closed his locker.

This had been the plan. Before Moscow. Before things got complicated. Or – not complicated, obviously, just – 

This had been the plan all along.

Everything else had just been practice. He simply hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it yet. But now – 

Now he had experience. Knew what he was doing. What worked. What didn’t. No reason not to follow through. No reason to let one… anomaly… affect anything.

“Do you want to go out sometime?” he asked.

Jennifer blinked. Then she smiled, surprised but clearly excited. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Shane nodded. “Okay.”

“When?” she asked.

He ran through his schedule automatically. “Friday?” he suggested. “After the game.”

Jennifer shifted her books. “Are you sure? What if you don't win?”

“We will.”

She laughed softly. “Okay. Friday, then.” Then she pushed off the locker, walking backward a few steps, still facing him. “See you later!”

She turned and disappeared into the crowd. Shane watched her go for a second. Then he opened his locker again and realigned the notebooks she had touched, pressing them into place more firmly than necessary.

*****

mtj.vlkn: hollzy r u alive or did a moose eat u yet

 

hollzy24: Still here

 

RadekToth22: Kharlamov made us watch your last game.

 

mtj.vlkn: team movie night x__X

 

RadekToth22: Rozanov said your timing was off again.

 

mtj.vlkn: yeah he was being annoying about it too

Shane stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.

hollzy24: Kinda weird

 

mtj.vlkn: abramov said ur defense is shit lol

 

hollzy24: Our defense is fine

 

RadekToth22: Abramov thinks every defense setup that doesn’t include him is shit.

 

mtj.vlkn: 2tru

mtj.vlkn: kirya almost took out the boards again today btw

 

RadekToth22: Not almost.

RadekToth22: He actually did.

 

hollzy24: How??

 

mtj.vlkn: tried 2 stop 2 hard, slammed straight into them

mtj.vlkn: zhukov lost it xD

 

RadekToth22: Five minutes of yelling.

 

mtj.vlkn: minimum

 

hollzy24: Sounds about right

 

mtj.vlkn: roz wasn’t impressed

 

RadekToth22: Yeah because he still missed his pass.

 

hollzy24: Tell him to aim better then

 

mtj.vlkn: rofl lmao

 

RadekToth22: I’ll pass it on.

Shane leaned back in his chair, fingers still resting on the keyboard. He kept looking at the chat. Didn’t type anything else. Didn’t close the window.

He just let it sit there until one of them logged off.

*****

Jennifer was already there by the time Shane got to the diner after the game. She was waiting outside next to the door, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, hands tucked into her jacket. Something about her hair was different. Straighter than usual, maybe.

She spotted him almost immediately.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. She was wearing lip gloss.

“Hey.” Shane stopped next to her.

There was a second where they both hesitated, like they were supposed to do something specific and neither of them was entirely sure what. Then Jennifer stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. It was light. Brief. Shane returned it a fraction too late.

“You played well,” she said as she pulled back. “I mean – that last goal? I don’t know too much about hockey, but it looked impressive.”

“Oh, uh. Yes. Thanks, it… yeah.” Shane mumbled and flexed his fingers.

Jennifer laughed softly. “Should we go inside?”

Shane nodded and held the door for her.

The place was warm, a little too bright. The smell of fries and grease hung in the air. It was close to the rink, so there were a few people in team jerseys, but no one paid them much attention.

They slid into a booth by the window. Jennifer pulled her jacket off and draped it beside her. “I haven’t been here in forever,” she said. “I think the last time was, like, middle school.”

Shane nodded.

A waitress came by, took their orders. Jennifer got a milkshake, banana. Shane asked for ginger ale – which they didn’t have. Water, then.

When the waitress left again, there was a pause.

Jennifer rested her chin lightly in her hand. “I noticed earlier, but…” she started. “You seem really different when you’re on the ice.”

Shane looked up from where he had started to absentmindedly pick at his nailbeds. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged slightly. “It’s like, you’re usually pretty quiet in class. But then earlier in the rink, you seemed –” she gestured vaguely “– louder. Like, not actually louder just… more. Intense.

Shane frowned. “I’m the same.”

Jennifer smiled a little. “You’re really not.”

He didn’t respond to that.

But after a brief pause, they shifted the topic and continued talking. About school. The math test. The game. Jennifer’s ballet classes. Shane’s practice schedule. Things that were easy to explain, easy to follow. Jennifer filled in the gaps naturally, picked topics up before the silence could stretch too long. She was good at that. 

Shane answered everything. Correctly.

She laughed at things that weren’t funny. He watched her do it. Tried to mirror it. Leaned forward. Held eye contact a little longer than usual, then looked away when it started to make his skin crawl. It worked.

Right?

Their food arrived. She stole a fry. He played along. He had looked some things up earlier that day and never actually intended to eat them himself.

Normal. This was normal.

At some point, she reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. Deliberate this time. Shane stilled. Then adjusted. Let his hand rest against hers. It was fine.

Her hands were soft. A little cold.

Jennifer smiled, pleased.

Shane watched her face, tried to match it. For a moment he expected something sharper. But nothing pushed back. Just soft. Easy.

He mirrored her a second too late. Her smile widened anyway.

This was – Good. Exactly what it was supposed to be.

But something still felt off.

A faint buzz under his skin. Something misaligned.

He adjusted his grip. Loosened. Tightened. She kept talking. He nodded at the right moments. Kept his hand there. Kept trying to make it right.

Outside, it was colder.

“This was nice,” she said.

“It was.”

A pause.

She stepped closer.

He leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Brief.

He waited.

Nothing shifted.

She touched his arm. He mirrored it. Hand at her waist.

Correct. Good.

Objectively good.

She smiled, flushed. “We should do this again.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes lit up.

He walked her to her car. Watched her leave. Stood there too long.

Then he turned. Walked. His mom would be waiting soon. The streetlights were bright. It wasn’t far. Shane kind of wished it was.

He exhaled slowly. Tried to categorize it. The evening. The conversation. The kiss. Everything had gone – 

Right. Exactly right.

So why did it feel like – 

He pressed his lips together and picked up his pace.

It had been good.

******************************

Москва, Ноябрь 2007

Ilya wished Andrei would break up with his girlfriend already. She was sitting at the table, half smiling, half miserable. She deserved better, but the way she stared at him – always, every time – made things more complicated.

It didn’t matter. Ilya wasn’t looking back.

In front of him, the table was pristine as always. Plates aligned, cutlery straight, dishes arranged perfectly. Polina might not have been a skilled cook, but at least she had potential as a decorator.

Father was already seated, Andrei to his right. Andrei's girlfriend occupied the space next to his brother and might as well have been a ghost for all she contributed to these dinners. Ilya pulled back his chair with a quiet scrape and sat down opposite her. Polina came out of the kitchen with the last pot.

Dinner started quietly, without much of a transition, like it always did. For a while, it was just the usual sounds – cutlery against plates, the oven still humming in the kitchen.

Then Andrei brought up the game. Not to Ilya, but he put it into the space between them.

“Score could’ve been cleaner,” he said, like an afterthought.

The colonel nodded once. “They lost structure in the second period.”

Their team had won, 3:1, but Ilya knew that wasn’t the point. It never was.

The point was he could always, always do more. Be better. Ilya kept eating.

“They rely too much on individual play,” Andrei continued, pushing something around his plate. “Works now. Won’t later.”

“It won’t be tolerated later,” their father corrected. “Kharlamov better correct it before the next game.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look up.

“No hopes of him moving up the leagues like this, if you ask me.” Andrei huffed out something that might have passed for a sarcastic laugh.

There was a small shift across from Ilya as Andrei's girlfriend reached for a dish, her hands just a little shaky before she corrected it. His father took a sip of his wine and considered Andrei’s words for a short while before nodding. “The Superleague has no interest in players who won't work with their team. It will be corrected.”

The words settled into the space like they belonged there. Like they had always been there. Father’s voice was level, but Ilya could hear the acid underneath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Polina’s fingers twitch against the stem of her glass, as if she were deciding whether or not to join the conversation.

“He’s at the age where discipline matters,” the colonel continued. “Habits form now.”

Andrei nodded. “Especially off the ice.”

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Some of the guys he spends time with,” Andrei continued, not looking at Ilya, “they’re not exactly –”

“Yes,” their father cut in. “But who they are matters. Vetrov’s daughter – that is a good connection. Useful. But some others are just distractions. They will reflect badly on him. He cannot afford that.”

Andrei nodded, like he understood exactly what his father was implying. “A pity Kharlamov’s son is such a…” He didn’t finish the sentence, just made a face. Polina huffed out a quiet laugh. “Well. It better change, if he wants a chance at moving up.”

Ilya had finished eating. His teeth were clenched tightly. The conversation shifted after a few more distasteful remarks. He reached for his glass, found it empty, and didn’t bother to refill it. The rest of it passed over him, familiar and weightless.

He stayed seated until his father had left and Andrei had pulled his girlfriend out into the hallway. Once they were gone, he pushed his chair back. Polina was already beginning to clear the table as Ilya stepped out onto the balcony.

The air outside was cold enough to bite, but he didn’t bother fetching a jacket. Ilya lit his cigarette, watched the flame a second longer than necessary before sliding the lighter back into his pocket. The first inhale burned. He let it.

The sounds of the city flowed over the buildings into the courtyard the balcony faced. It was dark. Lights glowed in the windows around him. Ilya smoked and looked into other people’s homes. Snapshots, nothing more. He didn’t bother wondering what their lives were like.

He got halfway through a second cigarette when the door opened behind him.

Ilya didn’t turn. The sharp clicking on concrete confirmed it was Polina stepping out and shutting the door behind her.

A pause.

Then the flick of a lighter.

Vanilla and ash.

She came to stand beside him. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of another body out in the cold, close enough to smell her cloying perfume.

They didn’t look at each other. Smoke drifted between them, slow and deliberate. Polina exhaled to the side, watching it disappear. Ilya flicked ash over the railing. Her painted nails tapped once against the metal, then stilled.

Silence stretched.

When Ilya lit a third cigarette, she turned her head to watch him. He looked back. She only lifted an eyebrow as she flicked her cigarette butt over the rail and lit another. Ilya shrugged and took another drag, blowing the smoke to the side and letting it dissipate into the darkness.

After a moment she said, “They notice.”

Ilya didn’t respond. He knew who. Knew they did. Knew what they noticed and what they thought. Ash dropped onto the balcony. He held the smoke in his lungs for too long.

Polina watched him a little while longer, her gaze moving over him in a way that felt measured, like she was checking for something and not quite finding it. Or maybe finding too much. Then she looked away again, back out over the courtyard, as if that was all there was to it.

The cigarette burned down between his fingers. He didn’t notice until it got too close, until the heat forced him to flick it away.

Ilya reached for another one immediately. Polina watched with her head tilted before she extinguished her own cigarette, flicked it away, and turned back toward the door.

“Don’t make a mess of it,” she added, almost as an afterthought. The door closed softly behind her.

Ilya stayed where he was.

The cold had settled into his hands now, into his face, but he didn’t move. The city kept moving around him, lights flickering in windows, people moving through their lives, unconcerned with his existence.

His mother would have – 

No.

Ilya inhaled sharply, suppressing the thought. Flicked the ash onto the balcony on purpose this time. By the time he went back inside, the table was empty again. Noise spilled from the living room, and he moved past it without looking.

In his room, he sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, not bothering with the light. His hand curled slowly into a fist, pressing his nails into his palm.

Ilya held them there until his thoughts went quiet.

Then he let go.

******************************

Ottawa, November 2007

It became a routine. Not all at once, but quickly enough that Shane didn’t question it.

Jennifer waited for him after class. Walked with him between periods when their schedules lined up. Showed up to his games when she could, bundled up in the stands with her friends, waving when she spotted him on the ice. They went out again. And again. Enough times that it started to feel like it counted. It was easy.

His teammates high-fived him when they spotted her. Evan tried to talk him into a double date with some friend of Jennifer’s that Shane had maybe met once before. His parents seemed proud, happy for him.

They sat close in booths and shared fries Shane didn’t actually want. She talked, he listened, answered when needed. Sometimes he managed something that made her laugh, and she looked at him like it mattered more than it realistically should.

He walked her to her car. Kissed her goodnight. Did all the things he was supposed to do.

Shane kept track of it all the same way he tracked everything else. What worked. What didn’t. How long eye contact should last before it became too much. Where to put his hands. When to lean in. Jennifer responded well to all of it. So he kept doing it.

Nothing was wrong.

Nothing was –

Shane exhaled slowly and opened his laptop.

The chat window was already blinking.

******************************

Москва, Декабрь 2007

Sveta’s room smelled the same as always. Her favorite perfume, nail polish, faint smoke, something sweeter underneath. Ilya lay stretched out across her bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Sveta was still half on top of him, idly tracing her fingers along his ribs. No hurry. There never was, with her.

“Mmh,” she mumbled. “I missed you.”

“Liar,” Ilya said automatically. “I was here two days ago.”

She snorted softly against his shoulder. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Ilya hummed in agreement. Sveta was warm against him under her covers. The silence felt good. Safe. 

If only it could have stayed that way.

After a few more moments, Sveta started to shift, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on her nightstand. The mattress dipped as she leaned back against the headboard. Ilya watched her pull two cigarettes out and put both of them in her mouth. What a strange Sveta thing to do. He'd seen it so often. She lit both of them at once, then pulled one from her mouth and handed it to him without looking. 

Ilya shuffled to sit up beside her, then took it. The wooden headboard was cold against his naked back. Sveta’s lipstick had left red marks on the filter. He brought it to his lips. Inhaled. Exhaled slowly.

The smoke caught in his throat on the way out.

She wasn’t looking at him, but he could tell just by the way she held herself that she was waiting for him to speak.

“…Practice has been murderous lately,” he started, voice level. 

Sveta turned her head slightly to glance at him through the smoke. “Yeah?”

He nodded once.

A beat.

“…Kharlamov –” he began again and tilted his head toward her.

Then he stopped.

For a second, the cold air in the darkened room was replaced by warmth and sunlight – 

Rough hands. Strong fingers turning against his wrist, deliberate, steady – 

Ilya blinked.

His breath caught, just for a second.

The thought slipped. Or maybe he forced it out.

Ilya frowned slightly, like something hadn’t landed right, but didn’t try to catch it again. He shook his head once, sharper than before.

“– Coach has been upset about something, I think,” he tried again, lamely.

Sveta didn’t respond immediately, just briefly pressed her lips together before taking another drag from her cigarette. That, more than anything, made it obvious she noticed. She watched him for a second too long. Bright hazel-green eyes focused but gentle. Not pushing. Just… waiting to see what he’d do next.

But Ilya just sat there, inhaled more smoke, eyes drifting toward the window.

It was getting dark outside. 

The silence stretched.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, just – not quite right.

Sveta tapped ash into the tray. Tilted her head slightly. “Something is off with you,” she said lightly. No edge. Just precise.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ilya replied, just as easily.

Another beat.

Sveta hummed. Not agreeing. Not arguing. Just filing it away. She leaned over to take the cigarette from him, their fingers brushing briefly. He watched her flick the ash into the tray next to her before she handed it back.

“You’ll tell me later,” she said. Not a question.

Ilya glanced at her.

For a second – just a second – he considered it. 

But what would he even say? What was there to tell? He couldn’t even conceptualize it, how was he supposed to put it into words? 

It was nothing. Everything was fine. 

So instead, he smirked, easy and familiar. “Maybe.”

Sveta smiled back. But she was still watching him with that same focus. 

******************************

Ottawa, December 2007

It had started small, probably.  Shane hadn't noticed it at first, not consciously. But it was growing.

At practice, mostly. A drill reset along the boards, bodies shifting into position. A hand catching his wrist for balance, gone again immediately. The usual proximity, the usual contact – nothing out of place.

Shane adjusted automatically. Reset his stance. Focused on the puck. But something in the timing felt off. He missed a step. Just slightly. Recovered. Kept going.

Later, in the locker room. Too many people in too little space, voices overlapping, movement constant. Someone brushed past him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to register. Normal.

Shane frowned, glanced up briefly – then looked away again just as quickly. Nothing to track. Nothing to correct. He shook it off. Refocused. Finished getting changed.

By the time he got home, it had already faded into the background again. Not important. Just a misread.

But it kept repeating. 

******************************

Москва, Январь 2008

It kept working. That was the thing.

Whatever this was – whatever had shifted – it didn’t matter. None of it actually stopped Ilya from doing what he’d always done.

No need to think about anything, or look into things too deeply, because Ilya was still having fun, same as always. The center of attention, the life of the party. An arm slung around someone’s shoulder, someone’s waist. Drink in hand, cigarette between his lips. Wide grins and laughter and people leaning in because they wanted him.

And Ilya wanted them, too. 

Until it was done, and he simply stopped. 

Easy.

Nothing changed, because nothing had to. He kept spending time with the same people, went home with strangers. Or with Sasha every once in a while, because Sasha was fun. Ilya still ended up at Sveta’s place more often than not, stayed there longer than he would anywhere else. Sometimes they’d just sleep, sometimes not. 

And sometimes she would look at him like she was waiting for something he still hadn’t said. 

But she never pressed, and Ilya just kept on going. 

It wasn’t that different on the ice. 

Ilya was still the best, and he would stay the best. Faster than all the others, taking riskier plays than anyone else dared. He made them keep up with him, or he kept the puck if necessary, plowing through defenses. 

Kharlamov wasn’t too happy at the start, but as the season went on and the results exceeded expectations, his whistle cut through the rink a little less sharply. More accepting. Maybe almost satisfied.

“Again.”

And Ilya would reset with a smirk. 

The team followed him wherever he led them. Loud cheers and chirps followed him into the locker room. Shoves and hands at the back of someone’s neck and physicality he didn’t always manage to leave on the ice. But no one called him out on it. 

At one point, through all the noise, he heard some of the guys offhandedly mention Hollander. Something about Canada, something about a girl. Volkin laughing loudly and Tóth smiling and saying something else that got drowned out. 

Ilya didn’t pay them any mind. Just reached for his tape and went to work, winding it tighter than necessary around the blade of his stick.

Locker room chatter never mattered. It wasn’t worth paying attention to.

But some moments – Some moments left him feeling off kilter.

A joke not landing the way it usually did. A pass not connecting by just a few centimeters because he’d already moved two plays further in his head. A girl leaning into him and waiting – just a second too long – for Ilya to react. 

Small things, things that could easily be ignored. Or drowned out. Ilya just had to go harder. Louder. Faster. 

And usually, that would fix it. 

No need to think about anything. 

Everything was exactly how it should be. 

******************************

Ottawa, January 2008

Evan’s house was full, but not overwhelmingly so. People clustered in small groups – around the kitchen counter, along the hallway walls, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. A half-eaten cake sat on the table, the candles already burned down and pushed off to the side. Someone had put music on, not too loud, just enough to fill the quiet spaces between conversations. Shane hadn’t recognized a single song so far, despite Volkin’s best efforts to further his musical education. 

He stood near the edge of the living room, a plastic cup in his hand, condensation dampening his fingers. It was just coke, but he wasn’t really drinking it anyway. Just holding it, because that's what you did. Something to do with his hands.

Shane could leave whenever he wanted, but he’d just gotten here a few minutes ago. It would have been rude. Evan was his friend, right?

Either way, Jennifer found him before he could make any decisions.

“Are you having a good night?” she asked, stepping into his space. She pressed a soft kiss to his lips and rested her hand lightly on his bicep. 

“Oh, hey,” Shane had almost been a little startled by her sudden appearance. “Yeah, Evan really knows how to, uh… celebrate.”

She huffed out a little laugh, already pulling him along toward the kitchen where the birthday boy and some other friends were in the middle of a heated discussion about a TV show Shane has never even heard of. It seemed that Jennifer was a big fan though.

The conversation kept moving through the house and through topics Shane mostly had no clue about. There was a brief mention of hockey, and how the Centaurs probably wouldn’t make it to the playoffs this year again. They’d won the cup some years back, but since then they’ve lost momentum. Shane gave a brief assessment of the issues with their current defense structure, but before he could get further into it, the topic had already changed again. First to football, then to the new semester and so on. 

The music got a little louder as the night dragged on, and people started dancing in the living room. Last year around this time, they’d been playing spin the bottle and Becky M. had given Shane a quick peck on the lips. This year, Jennifer was pulling him onto the makeshift dancefloor.

It felt more familiar than it should have. Shane wasn’t a good dancer, there still weren’t any songs he recognized. But it made him think of that night in St. Petersburg during training camp with the CSKA team. Radek and Volkin and the club, that girl he’d danced with and –

Anyway, this seemed like the kind of night people talked about like it was inevitable. A party, a girl, the easy progression from one thing to the next. The way things were supposed to go. And Shane knew exactly what to do. He’d done his research. Rested his hands on Jennifer’s waist as she slung her arms over his shoulders, her hands touching the back of his neck. He shifted his weight along with hers, somewhat trying to make the movements match the music, but mostly just adjusting to her rhythm.

When she leaned in, so did he. She kissed him, he held her waist a little tighter, steadying, pulling her closer. She laughed softly at something, her voice low enough that he only caught part of it despite the proximity. It didn’t matter. He nodded anyway.

There was a brief pause – just a fraction of a second where she lingered, waiting. 

It was his turn to lean in and initiate the kiss. 

It landed cleanly. No awkward angle, no uncertainty except for the tiny delay. Shane knew what to do, how to tilt his head, how much pressure to apply. They’d done this before. And even before that – Shane knew what to do. 

He knew how to live up to the expectation.

Everything was aligning just how it was supposed to. 

This was working.

They left the party not too long after.

Evan was in the kitchen again when they passed through, leaning against the counter with a paper plate in one hand, frosting smeared across his thumb. Someone said something to him and he laughed, easy and unbothered, before noticing them.

“Hey!” he grinned when he saw them, lifting his hand slightly in greeting.

“Happy birthday,” Shane said, already halfway to the door.

Evan grinned. “Thanks again, bro!” Then gestured vaguely between them, laughed and wiggled his eyebrows. “Have fun.”

Jennifer laughed under her breath as they stepped outside into the cold winter air. 

“My parents aren’t home tonight,” she said, as if Shane hadn’t known already.

He nodded.

*****

The house was quiet when they got there. Shane had only been here a couple of times before, and it felt different with the lights off. He didn’t get to take off his shoes or put away his jacket the way he usually did. Jennifer was pulling him along toward her room as soon as they got inside. 

She faltered, only slightly, as soon as the door closed behind them. She stepped into him, hands already at his jacket – then she hesitated. Shane wrapped his arms around her to pull her closer, and she pushed his jacket back off his shoulders. He let it fall, and slowly moved his fingers along the hem of her top.

This part was new. 

Or at least new between them. 

Still – simple. Clear. There was a sequence to this. Action, adjustment, response. Pay attention to what the other person does and to how they react. Take it slow. Check in. 

Jennifer exhaled a small, steadying breath, nodded to herself, and leaned in. Shane closed the gap. The kiss was soft and unhurried. Shane went along with it, easing the pressure when she did, following instead of leading. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pressed up against him.

That worked.

He kept it contained, controlled. One step at a time. His hand shifted up her waist, thumb brushing lightly over her skin, testing. She leaned into the touch. His other hand followed. A brief pause – space for her to stop him. But she didn’t. She lifted her arms slightly for him to push the fabric up, slow, watching her face. Her shoulders tensed, then relaxed. A small hitch in her breath.

Everything else followed.

Clothes dropped to the floor piece by piece. Shane resisted the urge to pick them up and fold them. Instead, he kept touching her, more deliberate now. 

She touched him back, slowly pulling him toward her bed.

Then it reduced to sequence. Move. Wait. Adjust. Jennifer stayed close, her reactions consistent, if a fraction delayed. Shane matched them, keeping everything smooth and steady. There was no moment where he didn’t know what to do next. It all fit.

At one point, his hand moved without thinking – fingers closing around her wrist, pulling her in closer.

He stilled.

Not because of her.

Because of it.

The angle. The pressure. The way it settled into his hand like something already known.

Jennifer didn’t react. Just leaned in again, her attention elsewhere, her other hand sliding up his shoulder.

Shane let go of her wrist. Continued. And it worked.

That was the clearest way to describe it. Nothing broke. Nothing stalled. Every step followed logically from the one before it. Jennifer stayed with him, responsive, present. When she tensed, he slowed. When she leaned in, he followed.

After, the room felt too small around him. Jennifer lay beside him, half turned toward him, one hand resting lightly against his arm, fingers tracing absent patterns.

“That was –” she started, then smiled instead. “Yeah.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t wrong. This had been the next step. He tried to locate the point where it should have shifted – where it would feel different enough to mark it as something more than just that. More than just continuation.

There wasn’t one.

Jennifer shifted closer, her head settling against his shoulder. Comfortable. Content. Her fingers kept running over his skin. 

Her touch was too light.

Shane didn’t say anything.

He stared at the ceiling.

He waited.

Nothing came.

“Are you staying?” Jennifer asked softly.

Shane turned his head slightly. “Yeah.”

She smiled again, satisfied, and tucked herself closer, an arm draping across his chest.

It should have confirmed that this was right.

Shane closed his eyes.

It didn’t.

*****

Shane had laid awake for quite a while and left before breakfast the next morning. His workout schedule. His meal plan. His mother’s raised eyebrow as he walked into the house, put on his running shoes, and left again. 

Later, his own bedroom was unbearably quiet. Nothing but the sound of skate blades inside his own head, clear and constant.

He reached for his laptop.

RadekToth22: So?

RadekToth22: How was the birthday party?

 

hollzy24: It was good

hollzy24: Just got home a little while ago

 

RadekToth22: Isn’t it like 10AM in Ottawa?

Shane hesitated just long enough to consider coming up with some half-truth.

RadekToth22: Oh!!!

RadekToth22: Did you stay at Jennifer’s place?

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

hollzy24: Yeah

 

RadekToth22: Did it go well?

 

hollzy24: Yeah

 

RadekToth22: You don’t sound convinced.

He frowned at the screen.

RadekToth22: Don’t tell Volkin I said this but

RadekToth22: Remember what he said that one time?

Shane remembered. Volkin’s large frame leaning back in his chair, grinning, saying it like it was obvious. 

‘Don’t overthink it. – If you feel like you have to overthink it, something is wrong.’

hollzy24: It’s not like that

hollzy24: It was good

hollzy24: She’s nice

For a moment, there was no response. 

Then Radoslav started typing again.

RadekToth22: Okay, if you’re sure. 

RadekToth22: Practice yesterday was wild, by the way. 

RadekToth22: Abramov was talking shit and Roz just straight up ended up fighting him over it.

Shane also remembered another thing Volkin had said.

‘Sexual but not friendly.’

hollzy24: Bet Kharlamov loved that

******************************

Москва, Февраль 2008

It was Ilya’s fault. Plain and simple. 

He’d made it past the defensemen and Kolya was right there, cutting toward the perfect position in the slot. But Ilya hesitated. Kept the puck just a second too long, and it ended up getting intercepted by the other team’s winger. He knew he had fucked up immediately. And less than a minute later, it flew just barely over Volkin’s glove, into the back of their net. 

When the third period ended, Kharlamov wasn’t yelling. That would come later, once they were back at their own rink. 

All his coach did was look at him and say, “You saw it.” Not a question. 

Ilya nodded in response anyway before he slid off the ice and made his way to the locker room.

It was still loud and rowdy, albeit less so than it would have been after a win. Gear hit the floor. Someone laughed too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. Kirya’s voice was loud and shrill, standing out from the couple of the guys who were already arguing over a play in the second period, voices overlapping, sharp at the edges.

No one mentioned the goal. Not directly.

Ilya stripped out of his pads, then sat down to untie his skates, tugging them loose with steady, practiced movements. His fingers didn’t shake. His breathing was even. Everything exactly how it should be. Across the room, Abramov was talking. Something about traffic on the ice, about coverage breaking down. Someone else cut in, disagreeing. Ilya tuned it out. He pulled one skate off, then the other. Set them down neatly beside the bench. Then he reached for the tape around his wrists.

“Are you coming along tonight? Or going home to check on Hollzy’s game later?” he heard someone say from the other side of the room.

“No, I already know the outcome,” Tóth answered with a small laugh. “He’s been on a streak lately.”

Kirya joined the discussion with a howl. “Leader of the pack! Wonder what they’re putting in his breakfast back in Canada these days.”

Ilya didn’t look up. Just kept peeling the tape off his hands, pulling it free from his skin, slow and controlled. 

A snort. Volkin. “Must be going well with his girlfriend.”  

Laughter.

The adhesive stuck for a second.

Ilya pulled harder than necessary.

The tape snapped free.

He stilled for a moment, then dropped it to the floor.

The conversation moved on. It always did.

Ilya reached for the other wrist and started again.

*****

Heavy bass was vibrating through his body, voices layering and mixing with each other and the music. The club was too loud to think. Heat pressed in from all sides, the air thick with smoke and sweat.

Ilya moved through it like second nature. One of his teammates handed him a drink, another clapped a hand against his shoulder to pull him into a conversation he didn’t bother following. It didn’t matter. They were here to commiserate the loss and get drunk. Simple. He laughed in the right places, slung an arm around someone’s waist, fingers brushing over skin just long enough to mean something. A smirk that landed just as it should.

Another drink. And another after that. Some of the guys started arguing about the game, replaying the last goal like they could undo it by talking about it. Ilya tuned it out and let Kirya pull him off to the dancefloor. 

A girl leaned into him, her hips moving against his along with the beat. Her breath tickled his neck when she spoke. He only caught half the words, but it was enough to respond. She laughed, waited. Ilya held her gaze a second too long, then turned away to keep dancing instead. It didn’t register. Or it did, and he ignored it.

When he went to get another round, there was another girl at the bar, twirling her fingers through her hair and leaning up to speak right next to his ear. Ilya didn’t move, didn’t close the distance. After a second, she did it for him. It worked. Of course it did.

Until it didn’t.

He stepped back first. No reason for it. Just – stepped back. Picked up his drink and turned away, the space he left behind quickly taken by someone else. Ilya didn’t look back as he walked back toward the table where some of his teammates were still sitting. More drinks. It didn’t hit the way it should have.

Sveta was there with some of her girlfriends. She was looking at him from across the room. That same look again. He glanced at her once, brief and dismissive. She didn’t look away, didn’t come over either, just stayed where she was, drink in hand, observing. Ilya turned back to the conversation around him and laughed along like he had been paying attention. 

Hours passed like that. Drinking, smoking, moving. Easy. At some point some of the guys started leaving. Another girl asked him to leave with her. Ilya didn’t. He turned away to keep dancing.

He also didn’t leave with Sveta as he usually would on nights like this. Their shoulders brushed on her way out. Her smile seemed tired. 

*****

He’d ended up crashing on Kirya’s couch after staying until the club closed and they were kicked out. Slept until noon and then tried to pass the time between cafés until he couldn’t avoid going home any longer.

Sunday dinner.

Always the same.

White table cloth, polished silverware, the good crystal glasses neatly lined up. Father at the head of the table, Polina to his left, Andrei to his right. – And next to Andrei, his girlfriend. Always in a nice, modest dress, always polite and quiet. 

Always staring. 

It didn’t take long before the topic inevitably shifted to hockey. Or, more specifically, to Ilya’s most recent game. How he had failed his team, the entire CSKA and his family. 

“An embarrassment, losing to Dynamo,” Andrei spat and his father nodded grimly.

Ilya kept eating.

“Kharlamov is too soft on them. Him, especially. This should have been corrected months ago.”

Ilya didn’t look up.

“No chance of moving up if he keeps being lazy like this.”

A pause.

Ilya’s fork hovered over his plate for a second. He set it back down and looked up. 

Not at his father. Not at his brother.

But at her. 

And Andrei’s girlfriend was looking back at him already, because she always did.

He usually ignored her. 

He could look away.

He didn’t.

Ilya held her gaze while Andrei and father kept talking, Polina interjecting every once in a while and refilling wine glasses. Things moved on the way they always did. 

Across from him, Andrei's girlfriend smiled.

Dinner ended. Chairs shifting, plates being cleared, Polina moving back and forth between the table and the kitchen. Father left to go to the living room, Andrei followed soon after. His girlfriend disappeared down the hallway. 

Ilya stayed seated for another moment, then pushed his chair back and gollowed, closing the door behind him.

She was there. 

Leaning against the wall, still smiling, still looking. 

Ilya paused for a moment, taking her in. She had never been subtle, but there was absolutely zero pretense left now. He knew exactly what this was. He could still turn around, go to smoke on the balcony. He could walk past her to his room and close the door, let the moment pass. 

It didn’t matter.

Nothing really did. 

It hadn’t for a while.

Ilya stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. Her hand moved first, fingers brushing his arm, light, testing – and Ilya didn’t pull away, didn’t break eye contact.

That was enough.

*****

He probably should have locked the door. 

He hadn’t. 

There was no time to move. Andrei’s voice was sharp and close and then he was on him, the first shove hard enough to send Ilya back into the wall, shoulder slamming against it with a dull crack.

Something gave – maybe the doorframe, maybe not.

“You fucked up little –” The rest got lost in the next impact.

Yelling, too loud and too close, spittle flying, hands grabbing, shoving again. Ilya pushed back on instinct, breath knocked out of him as his spine hit the wall a second time.

It didn’t slow anything down.

Another hit, somewhere between his ribs and his arm, a sharp edge of pain that didn’t settle before the next one came.

Ilya said nothing. 

His hands curled into fists. 

*****

He didn’t go to school the next day.

But he showed up for practice.

He ran into Kharlamov in the hallway between the offices and the locker room. Clipboard in hand, whistle hanging loose around his neck. His gaze came to rest on Ilya’s face. Nothing shifted in his expression as he took him in. The split lip, the bruising along his jaw, the swollen eye. 

Ilya’s coach didn’t say anything, just looked at him for another moment.

Ilya shrugged and moved past him.

No broken bones this close to the playoffs.

The colonel’s rule.

Ilya was on the ice before anyone else even arrived, and practice started like it always did, before any questions could be asked. He ignored the looks. But in the locker room afterward, the noise died down a little too quickly when Ilya walked in. A few looks, not subtle enough to pretend otherwise. Kirya said something under his breath to Toivanen.

Kolya didn’t pretend. He looked at him openly, waited until Ilya sat down, then leaned over slightly. “What happened?”

Ilya pulled his jersey over his head, trying hard not to wince at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he pulled it up. 

“Nothing,” he said.

Kolya kept staring, unmoving.

Ilya glanced at him, just briefly. “Drop it,” he said, already looking away.

After a long moment, Kolya leaned back, lips pressed together, averting his gaze. The room filled up again, voices returning, louder this time.

Ilya continued moving through his routine. 

Exactly how it should be.

******************************

Ottawa, February 2008

Things didn’t change. Not the next time, or the time after that. Shane kept trying. His focus was where it was supposed to be, he tracked every reaction, every shift in pace. Made sure he didn’t rush, didn’t miss anything, didn’t let the sequence break.

After the night following Evan’s birthday party, Jennifer had asked him if it had been his first time too. 

Shane had stilled for a fraction of a second, then told her he’d never been with any other girl before her. It was easier that way.

In general, Jennifer made things easy. It usually started with her. A shift closer on the couch. Her hand finding his first. A kiss that lingered just long enough to turn into something else. And Shane always followed. There was no reason not to.

Sometimes he closed his eyes and reduced it to sensation. That required less of him.

There were moments he skipped. Not consciously – just avoided the parts that required him to choose instead of respond. Shane stayed where things were predictable. Where the response was immediate. Where he didn’t have to hesitate. Where he didn’t have to want anything first.

Jennifer didn’t seem to mind. If she asked for something directly, he complied. She seemed satisfied, happy. 

And still – 

The confirmation he’d been waiting for never came. 

*****

Ottawa, March 2008

By March, his mother was back on the ice with him almost every day. Not unusual. Not new. Just – more. She never interfered with the official practices with the team, but she came and observed. Then stayed on the ice with him after the others left. 

She watched him, arms crossed. “Your stride is off.”

Shane exhaled quietly. “It’s not.” It wasn’t defensive. Just automatic.

“It is. You’re compensating on your left side again.”

Again.

He nodded once and reset. “Don’t think about it,” she added. “Just commit.”

He pushed off harder this time – faster, sharper, cleaner. No hesitation.

“Better,” she said. “But you’re still adjusting mid-play.”

Shane slowed near the boards. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she replied, studying him. “You just haven’t noticed it yet.”

A pause, brief enough to barely register.

“Again.”

Shane reset and went through it again. And again. Each repetition was a little tighter, a little more exact, until there was nothing left to correct.

“Good,” his mother said finally, satisfied.

He nodded once and turned back toward center ice for another rerun.

*****

Shane planned it. Not all at once. It started as a thought, then a consideration, then something he kept returning to until it settled into something concrete. By the time he decided to actually do it, he already knew how it was supposed to go.

He’d looked it up. A few different sources. Articles, forums. One of those horrible teen magazines after he’d seen it in the library and then proceeded to hide between the shelves flipping through it. The same points repeated often enough to feel reliable.

Be clear. Be kind. Don’t drag it out. Don’t assign blame.

Don’t make it about the other person.

That part was easy.

*****

They broke up on a Thursday.

After school, on the walk they usually took together toward the rink for Shane’s hockey practice. The same direction as the studio where Jennifer took ballet classes. She was talking about that – flexibility, pointe shoes – but Shane was only half listening, mentally running through the steps again. The timing was fine. The location too. Public enough, but not crowded. No interruptions.

He knew where to start.

“Hey,” he said, cutting in.

She stopped, looking at him. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Shane started, steady. “With playoffs starting, things are going to get a lot busier for me.” Her expression shifted slightly. “I don’t think I can give you the attention you deserve right now. And that’s not fair to you.”

There it was. Clear. Considerate. Impersonal. Exactly how it was supposed to be phrased.

Jennifer blinked. “Oh.”

Shane held her gaze. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he added. “This is on me.”

She adjusted her grip on her bag, looking at him with furrowed brows. “…Okay,” she said slowly. No argument. No pushback. That was good. That was how this was supposed to go.

“I just think it’s better if we –” Shane stopped himself, recalibrated. Be clear. “I think it’s better if we break up, before things get more complicated.”

Jennifer nodded again, quieter this time. “Right.”

There was a brief pause before she asked, “Is it because you don’t like me like that?”

Shane stilled for just a fraction of a second. Something in it caught – just briefly – but he moved past it.

“It’s not that,” he said. “You’re great.”

A half-truth. Clean. Kind.

Jennifer watched him, her eyes were starting to get a little wet. “Okay,” she repeated, offering a small, tight smile that didn’t quite hold. “I guess that makes sense. With hockey and everything.”

Shane nodded.

They stood there for another moment, both of them waiting for something that didn’t come. Then Jennifer stepped back first, turning to walk in the other direction.

“I’ll see you at school.”

“Yeah.”

Shane watched until she disappeared around the corner, then shifted his weight and kept walking.

He had done everything right. Clean execution. 

It still felt wrong.

He exhaled slowly, the air stinging his lungs despite the hint of spring.

Jennifer deserved better. That part was clear.

And whatever this was – it wasn’t that.

Shane retraced it anyway. Start to finish. No missteps. No gaps in the sequence. Nothing he could isolate and correct. Which meant the issue wasn’t execution. It was input.

A different variable.

He could test that.

There were other possibilities. He just hadn’t accounted for all of them yet.

Shane adjusted his grip on his bag and kept walking.

This was just one datapoint. 

******************************

Москва, Март 2008

Ilya hadn’t been here in almost two weeks. Sveta didn’t say anything when she opened the door, didn’t even look surprised taking in the ugly yellow-green bruises that were slowly fading from his face. Ilya only briefly glanced at the gallery wall as he followed her down the hallway, like he was avoiding his mothers gaze from where she sat, smiling in the picture next to Sveta’s mom.

Her room was the same. The ghosts of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the wall. A cool, deep red satin comforter. Smoke and nail polish and her perfume. 

“You’ve been busy,” Sveta said, closing the door behind him.

“Playoffs,” he replied easily.

She didn’t reply, just looked at him. There was no real expression on her face. She just seemed… tired. 

Ilya knew that look. He walked past her and sat down on the bed, facing the chair that sat in front of her dressing table. Sveta watched him for another moment before she crossed the room and sat down opposite of him. She lit a cigarette. Inhaled. Kept looking. Ilya knew how these things went by now. 

“Our last game was good,” he said, like he was picking up a conversation they hadn’t been having. 

Sveta hummed. She took another drag of her cigarette and said nothing.

Silence stretched.

Ilya didn’t know what to do with his hands. “We will beat Yaroslavl next round and move on to the next stage.”

She nodded.

Another beat.

Then –

“Are you done?” she asked, flicking ash into a tray.

Ilya’s fingers clenched in the fabric of his jeans. “With what?”

“With pretending that everything is fine and you haven’t been avoiding me.”

He let out a short breath through his nose, something close to a laugh. “You’re imagining things.” A futile attempt, but still. Maybe he could at least delay the inevitable.

“Am I?” Her tone didn’t change. 

Ilya didn’t answer.

Sveta crossed her legs and settled further into her chair. “I know you’ve been picking fights,” she said. “On the ice, sure. But your brother? Seriously, Ilyusha? You look like shit.” 

How did she know?

“Thanks.”

“You’re not even enjoying any of it anymore.”

That one landed. Ilya’s jaw tightened, his hands balled into fists against his thighs.

“Don’t start,” he said, tone sharp and warning.

Sveta blew out smoke with a huff and tilted her head. She was watching him the same way she had been for months, but there was less patience in her eyes now. “I’m not starting anything,” she said. “I’m finishing it.”

A pause.

Then, just as evenly, she began, “Ever since this summer –”

Ilya went very still.

“– you’ve been off.”

“I don’t know what you –”

“No,” she cut in, calm and determined. “Don’t lie to me now. Don’t sit there and tell me nothing has changed when it obviously has.”

Ilya just sat there, gripping the comforter now. “Nothing has changed.”

Sveta sighed and pressed the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray on the table. Then she got up and took a step toward him. Not aggressive, just… firm. 

“Then why are you trying so hard to prove it?”

Silence.

Ilya looked at her, something sharp and dangerous flickering under the surface now. He stood up, looking down at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sveta held his gaze. “I know you,” she said, “Better than anyone.”

True.

Something sharp tugged at Ilya’s ribs.  

Another beat. Then her eyes softened.

“It’s okay, you know?”

He felt like he needed to brace for impact. 

Sveta exhaled. “It’s okay for you to like someone,” she continued, voice measured. “You don’t have to go and turn your entire life into –”

“Stop.”

The word cut clean through the room. Sveta didn’t flinch.

Ilya’s voice dropped, colder now. “There is no ‘someone.’”

She held his gaze. Didn’t let him look away.

“You met him this summer,” she said. “And you haven’t been the same since.”

“That’s not –”

“It is.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment, tension kept building between them.

Ilya let out a short, sharp breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m right.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter, almost gentle again, “It’s just a crush, Ilyusha. It’s not that serious.”

That did it. Something in his expression hardened completely, all sharp edges now.

“Crushes are for stupid teenage girls,” he hissed. The words landed exactly how he meant them to.

Sveta didn’t bite, just blinked once. Then – 

“You’re a stupid teenage boy.”

No hesitation. No softness left.

Just a fact.

Silence.

Neither of them moved.

*****

Москва, Апрель 2008

The final buzzer cut clean through the rink, and then everything broke loose. The bench emptied. Sticks hit the ice, gloves dropped, bodies collided. Someone grabbed Ilya, another arm hooked around his neck, dragging him into the pile – but he shoved his way to the front of it, laughing, loud and sharp. “That’s it?” he shouted. “That’s all they had?”

Someone slammed into him from the side. He hit them back harder, grinning when they staggered. That was how it was supposed to feel.

The locker room was worse – music already blasting, gear hitting the floor, voices stacking over each other. Kirya crashed into him, Kolya talking too fast to track, Vasilevsky laughing. Ilya didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a bottle out of someone’s hand, tipped it back, swallowed, then shoved it into Kirya’s chest. “Wake up,” he said. “We’re just getting started.”

Kirya laughed, shoved him back. “Captain wants more!”

“Obviously,” Ilya shot back, already moving.

It came easily. Every beat landed where it should, every reaction immediate. He pushed, they pushed back – louder, faster, sharper. Someone clapped him on the shoulder and said something he didn’t catch, and Ilya shrugged him off with a grin. “Next one better be harder than that.”

More noise. Someone started chanting, and the rest picked it up, voices mixing and layering until it turned into something constant and heavy. Ilya kept it going, matching the pace, raising it where it dipped, keeping himself at the center of it.

He should have felt it more – the edge, the rush.

It was there.

Just thinner than it should have been.

He pushed harder. Laughed louder, hit back faster, kept the pace high enough that no one could question it. 

It worked. No one noticed. Why would they?

This was him. They had won.

Later, he dropped onto the bench and started unlacing his skates, hands moving automatically – laces loose, tape peeled back cleanly. Same as always.

“Hey,” Kolya said. “We’re going out later. You’re coming, right?”

“Yeah.” Of course he was.

Kolya nodded, already turning away. Ilya pulled his second skate free, set it down, reached for his towel. For a moment, the room lagged – not quiet, just a fraction behind – then it snapped back into place. Voices, movement, noise.

Ilya stood and stepped back into it without hesitation.

There was nothing to think about.

Nothing had changed.

******************************

May, Ottawa 2008

The clock was already winding down when Shane shifted forward. Not toward the bench. Not toward the boards. Into position. Stick down, weight balanced, eyes tracking the puck as it moved up the boards, across the blue line, cleared clean. No turnover. No last-second pressure. The structure held.

Three seconds.

Two.

One.

The buzzer sounded. Shane stopped. They had won.

Around him, everything reacted at once – shouts, helmets getting dropped onto the ice, bodies colliding as the line jumped over the boards. One of his teammates grabbed him, pulling him into the huddle, and Shane adjusted automatically, shifting his weight so neither of them went down.

“Let’s go!” someone yelled into his ear.

Shane nodded once. He let himself be absorbed, returned shoves, and fist bumps and quick half-hugs. Measured. Appropriate. The final shift had executed exactly as it should have. He could trace it back without effort – every pass, every adjustment, every moment where it could have slipped and didn’t. It all fit.

“Happy birthday, man!” someone shouted from somewhere to his left.

Shane glanced over, nodded. “Thanks.”

“Couldn’t have timed it better!”

He just smiled.

The locker room was loud, but contained. Music from a phone speaker, voices bustling, gear getting stripped off and thrown around. Someone had brought drinks. Not organized, but expected. Shane sat down and pulled off his gloves, fingers already working at the tape on his stick. Across from him, Roy was talking too fast, replaying something from the second period. Another voice cut in, correcting him. Shane listened. Not to the story – to the structure underneath it. There had been a gap on the left side during that shift. A delay in coverage that hadn’t been punished. Something to correct. He filed it away.

“Hey,” Wilson, the right winger on Shane’s line, said while leaning over slightly. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

Shane looked up. “Yeah,” he said. There was no reason not to.

Later, after the loudest shower he’d ever taken, the room began to thin out. Shane stood by his stall and packed his gear. Same order as always. Helmet, gloves, pads. Stick last. Everything where it was supposed to be. They had won.

He ran through it again, once, from start to finish. No breaks. No missed steps. No points where he had slipped out of control. Clean execution. That was the goal.

Someone behind him was talking about their plans for the night – location, time – but Shane only half listened. He zipped his bag, adjusted the strap over his shoulder. For a moment, something didn’t settle where it should have. Then it passed. He headed for the door. There was nothing to fix.

*****

The party was already in full swing by the time Shane got there. He could feel the bass vibrating from the street outside. Not contained. Not structured. Music pushing past what the speakers could handle, voices layered on top of each other until nothing stood out clearly. The living room was packed, people shoulder to shoulder, someone shouting over the music, someone else already laughing too loudly in response.

Webber, who was hosting, spotted him first. “Hollywood! Our birthday boy!” he yelled, grinning. “Finally!”

Shane gave him a tight smile, accepted the clap on the shoulder and let himself be pulled further into the chaos. Someone shoved a drink into his hand before he could say anything else. Webber was already turning away, pulled back into the crowd. Shane stayed where he was for a moment, letting the movement settle around him.

It didn’t.

People kept shifting, brushing past him, conversations starting and ending mid-sentence. Someone bumped into his shoulder hard enough that he had to adjust his stance to stay balanced. A group near the couch broke into shouting over something on a phone screen. Laughter spiked, dropped, spiked again. There wasn’t a pattern to it. Not a clean one.

Shane took a sip from his red solo cup. He shouldn’t be drinking this. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and sugar. He took another sip anyway because maybe – just maybe, it would make all of this make a little more sense. Eventually, he moved further through the house, along walls, to the edge of the living room where the pressure was lower. Just enough space to stand still without getting pushed over. From there, it was easier to track what was happening around him. Who was where. Who was moving. Which conversations were likely to hold, which would break apart. Where the exits were.

It stabilized things.

Someone from the team passed by, said something about the game, slapped his shoulder, didn’t wait for a response. Another voice called his name from somewhere he couldn’t see. He turned in the general direction and got pulled into a conversation with a few of his other teammates.

Shane floated from room to room, conversation to conversation and time passed. Not in a way he could measure cleanly – just in shifts. The music changed, the crowd shifted, the air got warmer, heavier. His drink was gone at some point. He didn’t remember finishing it. Someone handed him another one. He accepted it. There was no reason not to.

Eventually, he ended up in the hallway.

It was a bit calmer there. Not quiet, but reduced. The music dulled by distance just enough to actually understand what the people around him were saying. Someone passed behind him, heading toward one of the bedrooms, laughing under their breath.

Shane leaned back against the wall, the cool surface grounding.

Better. More contained.

For a moment, everything aligned again. Movement, sound, spacing.

Predictable.

“You’re Hollander, right?”

He turned. The girl was standing right next to him, close enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice. There was something in her eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. 

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen you play,” she said. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Claire.”

“Shane.”

“Duh, I know,” she smiled slightly, like that was the expected outcome, then tipped her head back toward the living room. “You play like that all the time, or was tonight special?”

“Most of the time.”

“Good for the team,” she said with a teasing smirk.

Then she stepped closer. Not tentative. Not slow. Ran her hand over his chest and caught his wrist. Brief, grounding, and then she was already moving, pulling him a step down the hallway. “Come on,” she said. Not a question. 

Shane followed her.

The room upstairs was smaller. Quieter. The music cut down to a dull thud through the floor. Claire shut the door behind them and locked it without looking. Then she turned back to him. No pause. No recalibration. She stepped into him, hands already at his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss that was immediate, confident, a little careless around the edges. Shane went along with it. Moved at the same pace, pushed back in a way that seemed to please her.

This part was simple. There was a structure to it, and he followed it cleanly. She was decisive. Didn’t wait. If anything, she skipped steps he’d expected and pushed forward faster. Her lips on his throat, her hands on his belt buckle. 

That worked. Better, in theory.

At some point, his hand brushed through her hair. 

Not intentional.

It just – landed there.

Curls. 

It should have –

Something.

Claire didn’t react. She just kept going, already pulling him somewhere else, her attention sliding past it. She moved to push him down on the edge of the bed.

Shane stilled for half a second.

Then he let her. 

No breaks. No hesitation. Everything progressed, from one moment to the next. Her hands were confident. Her mouth was hot. She left no gaps for Shane to fill, and he just went along with it. No shift. He let her pull his hand under her skirt, kissed her back, and closed his eyes.

There was no aftermath. Not really. Claire just readjusted her clothes, wiped a hand over her mouth, grin still in place.

“This was fun,” she said, like a passing comment, already halfway to the door.

Shane hummed something that sounded close enough to approval.

She unlocked it, glanced back once – brief, assessing – then winked. “See you around, Hollywood.”

The music rushed back in as the door opened, swallowed her immediately and she was gone. Shane stayed where he was for a moment. The room felt just a bit colder now that he was alone. His mind replayed what had just happened. Everything had gone just right. Better than before.

That should have made a difference.

It didn’t.

After another moment, he got up, smoothed out his shirt and left the room. Wandered around the house until he ended up on the back porch with another drink in hand. Even out here, enough people were crowded around to make the air feel a little thicker. A few of them were smoking. Noise from inside carried through the walls, muffled but constant. The door opened, more spilled out, then it closed again. 

Shane stood still.

A new variable.

Closer to – 

The outcome should have improved.

It hadn’t.

He exhaled slowly.

Maybe the issue wasn’t execution.

He didn’t let the thought take shape.

******************************

Москва, Май 2008

Ilya ran into Sveta’s mother at the door, and she greeted him like she always did, like nothing had changed. With the same dazzling smile she’d always given him, ever since he was four years old. “They’re outside – Have fun, dear!” she told him on her way out of the building.  

Through the hallway and the kitchen, out onto the balcony. Sasha was leaning back in one of the white garden chairs, gesturing as he talked, one leg crossed over the other. Sveta was leaning against one of the railing, cigarette between her fingers, ash burning too long. She glanced up when Ilya walked through the open doorframe.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

That was it.

Sasha turned, grin immediate. “Look who’s alive!”

“Barely,” Ilya said, dropping into one of the other chairs around the little outdoor table.

“Still celebrating?” Sasha asked.

Ilya smirked. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Go to school?” Sveta said, dryly. 

Ilya snorted. “Optional.”

All of them knew he wouldn’t risk skipping classes, but the corner of her mouth twitched anyway.

The smile didn’t form.

Sasha launched back into whatever he’d been saying. “I’m telling you, he’s worse now that the season’s over. Just walks around the apartment like he’s still coaching. Up and down, the whole damn day. – Yesterday he tried to correct how I opened the fridge.”

Ilya huffed. “Sounds about right.”

“Discipline,” Sasha mimicked his father’s gruff, neutral tone while rolling his eyes. “Structure.” He gestured vaguely. “At home!”

“Tragic,” Ilya said.

“You have no idea.”

Sveta flicked ash off the balcony, not looking at either of them. “You’re both impossible.”

“It’s how you raised us,” Ilya said.

That got another almost-smile.

Almost.

Ilya leaned back in his chair, and let the conversation flow past him for a while. He followed it, added something when it was expected, but didn’t interfere. He just let Sasha carry most of it. He was quieter than he should have been. Not enough for Sasha to notice. But enough that Sveta did. 

At some point, she moved past him to stub out her cigarette, her shoulder brushing his lightly. He didn’t react. She didn’t look at him.

“You going out tonight?” Sasha asked, addressing Ilya.

“Probably.”

“Again?” Sveta said.

Ilya glanced at her. “What, you keeping track now?”

“No,” she said. “Just noticing.”

A beat.

“Good for you,” she added, like it didn’t matter.

Sasha checked his phone, groaned, and pushed himself up. “I’ve got to go. Dad said if I fail that fucking French test this week, he’s grounding me for the whole summer.”

“Of course he did,” Ilya said with a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sasha grabbed his jacket, pausing at the door. “Where are you going, later? That thing Kirill mentioned last week?”

“Probably.”

“Then I’ll probably see you later,” Sasha gave him a quick smirk, then turned a bit to address Sveta as well. “Don’t burn the city down in the meantime.”

“No promises.”

Sasha laughed as the door shut behind him.

The noise coming from the street suddenly seemed much louder than it had just a moment before, now that the balcony had gone quiet. Sveta stayed where she was and lit another cigarette. Ilya did the same. 

Neither of them moved, only smoke filled the space between them.

“You’re sticking around?” she asked eventually.

“For a bit.”

She nodded. Didn’t say anything else.

Ilya glanced at her, briefly. She was looking out over the city, not at him.

Smoke curled upward, steady, controlled.

Ilya could fix this.

Say something. Reset it. Push it back into something familiar.

He knew how.

He didn’t.

After a moment, Sveta once more reached past him for the ashtray, her arm brushing his again. Closer this time. Still nothing.

They stayed like that. Not talking. Not leaving.

It should have felt easier.

It wasn’t. 

******************************

Lake Placid, August 2008

It started before the ice. The hotel desk cleared, equipment laid out in exact order. Tape, laces, visor cleaned twice. Meals timed. Water intake tracked. Everything where it was supposed to be.

Lake Placid felt smaller than it should have. Too contained for what it was – four countries, too many players, too many scouts, all compressed into one complex, one schedule, one set of games that were supposed to mean something without officially meaning anything.

The lobby was never quiet. Players moving in clusters, different languages overlapping, gear bags dragged across tile floors at all hours.

Shane mapped it quickly. Who belonged to which team. Who carried themselves like they already had a spot. Who was trying too hard. Who would be cut later.

On the ice, there was no settling in. No slow ramp-up. Games started immediately.

“Short shifts.”

“Keep it simple.”

“Play your game.”

Shane did.

The pace was uneven at first.

Not slower – just inconsistent. Different systems colliding, timing slightly off, passes arriving a fraction too early or too late. It took less than a period to adjust. After that, it was clean.

Once, against Sweden, he misread a lane. Arrived a fraction too late. The puck was already gone. No one said anything. He corrected it the next shift. Didn’t let it repeat. After that, the rest blurred into structure.

Off the ice, it stayed the same. Stretching, refueling, reviewing. Every sequence replayed, corrected, filed away. There were no gaps left by the end of it. Nothing obvious to fix.

It should have stabilized things.

It didn’t.

By the final game, the outcome felt decided. Not officially, but close enough. There were conversations in hallways instead of announcements, names mentioned without emphasis. Shane listened when his came up, nodded once, like it had always been the only option.

Briefly, he wondered how the other camps were shaping up.

Then he let it go.

After that, everything followed the same pattern. Travel. Final cuts. Confirmations.

There was nothing left to adjust.

******************************

Химки, Декабрь 2008

The camp wasn’t difficult. Shorter than it should have been. Less competitive than it was supposed to feel.

Short shifts. Hard drills. No wasted time.

Ilya played like he always did – fast, aggressive, pushing past what was necessary just to prove that he could. Didn’t wait for instructions. Didn’t hold back when he probably should have. There was no one there who could match him, not really.

There never had been.

The Canadian roster got posted online that afternoon. Someone had printed it out and hung it up in the locker room, next to the others that had already been announced.

He could hear Abramov’s voice from across the room, he sounded almost a bit annoyed. “Of course he made it.”

Ilya didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to.

“– Hollander,” someone else said. “Captain, too.”

That was enough.

Ilya waited until the others cleared out before he approached the list himself. Just to confirm it.

And there it was. Black on white.

F - 24 - Shane Hollander 

(C)

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he turned to leave.

Russia’s official selection wasn’t posted yet. But Ilya already knew where his name would end up.

Two more days. Then the camp would be over.

Then he’d be on a plane. Canada. First time leaving the country.

He exhaled through his nose as he stepped out into the hallway. Staff and players were still lingering about, low conversation and the clattering of gear stretched through the space.

Same tournament. Same ice. This time – 

He wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

Ilya took a step forward.

“Move,” he said, shoving past someone. “You’re in the way.”

***************

*********************************************

***************

Regina, December 2008

The flame catches.

Neither of them moves. 

The wind pulls at it, small and unsteady until the fire goes out. Rozanov flicks the lighter again. Too quickly at first. Then steadier. 

Shane can hear his own pulse. Too fast. Too loud. Almost fully drowning out the sound of ice scraping inside his head. 

Rozanov straightens slightly as the cigarette lights, the tip flaring bright before dimming again. He takes a drag, slow, deliberate. The ash builds up. 

Shane’s gaze tracks it automatically.

The movement of his hand. How the cigarette sits between his fingers. The angle of his wrist. How his chest expands under his coat. The way his shoulders settle –

He shouldn’t be noticing this.

Rozanov exhales. The smoke almost immediately dissipates into the icy air, carried off by the wind.

His eyes don’t leave Shane.

They stay on him, like he’s waiting for something Shane doesn’t know how to give.

Neither of them looks away.

Shane’s lungs feel heavy. His body feels wrong. Off-balance. Like he stopped mid-step and never corrected for it. He tries to adjust. 

Small. Intent. Not enough. 

Rozanov shifts a second later.

He looks – different.

Not in a way that should matter. 

Shane notices anyway.

He’s a fraction taller than he was last summer. His hair is longer, curling more at the ends. There’s a split in his lip. His knuckles look raw, skin cracked from the cold.

Shane’s focus narrows.

Sharp.

Too sharp.

“You shouldn’t be smoking here,” Shane says, because it’s the first appropriate thing he can reach for and he needs to do something, anything to stop looking at Rozanov’s mouth.

“Cold,” Rozanov says after a moment, like it explains everything. His voice is lower than Shane remembers it, catches slightly on the word, rougher than it should be.

Shane nods. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches.

It doesn’t settle.

It grows.

Shane tries to reset.

There’s a structure for this. A sequence. Something he can follow to stabilize – 

Nothing fits.

Rozanov takes another drag, slower this time. Watches Shane while his lips wrap around the filter of his cigarette. Then he says, “I thought your team has practice now,” with a raised eyebrow.

Shane exhales, too controlled. “Just needed a moment. Too many variables.”

Rozanov’s mouth curves, one corner lifting higher than the other. “You are the same.”

Shane doesn’t respond. He can’t – 

Something inside him is getting louder.

Not a thought.

Not something he can track.

Just – pressure.

He notices everything.

The way Rozanov leans against the side of the building. The way his breath fogs in the air. The way the wind rustles the curls peaking out from under his toque.

The way he’s standing there like this is – 

Nothing.

It isn’t.

Shane’s chest tightens.

His pulse spikes again, sharper this time.

This shouldn’t – 

He should be able to control this.

He should – 

He can’t.

The realization hits, sudden and clean and completely unmanageable.

Not a theory.

Not a variable.

Not something he can test or adjust.

Just –

Him.

Shane looks at him. Really looks. And there’s no way around it.

Rozanov flicks the cigarette down to the floor, grinding it out against the concrete with the toe of his shoe. Then he looks back up. Blue eyes. 

Something almost there. – Gone.

“See you on the ice,” he says with that crooked smirk of his. There's an edge to his voice. 

Shane holds his gaze. He can’t look away. “Yeah. See you.”

Rozanov nods, like that settles it, then pushes off the wall and walks past him, close enough that Shane feels it as he passes.

Shane doesn’t move.

His heart is still racing.

His hands feel unsteady.

Everything is – 

Wrong.

It should have stabilized.

It shouldn't feel like this.

But – 

Shane turns, just slightly.

Not to follow.

Just enough to see.

He catches the edge of Rozanov's face as he turns away.

Was he – 

Nevermind. 

Shane just keeps breathing. 

It doesn’t change anything.

Except – 

It does.

Chapter End Notes

What does one even say at this point?

I've learned so much writing this. It's wild to look back at the earlier chapters and see how much has changed in the span of 100k words. This is so much longer than I ever thought it would be. At the very beginning, I thought this might just stay a oneshot - and now I'm planning a sequel. I learned so much about hockey. I remembered so many things from my own teenage years that I thought I had long forgotten. Weirdly enough, this helped me process so many things I thought would stay unresolved forever. I've been in fandom spaces for what feels like all my life, but never like this. These two have a special place in my heart.

I can't even begin to express my gratitude to all of you who read this, enjoyed it and encouraged me. It was endlessly motivating, knowing that other people were also curious about this little story I cooked up.

And I hope we'll see each other again soon, because this isn't over.
We've entered canon timeline territory now, and I have to know how Shane and Ilya would act going forward, given this shared history. They're still so young, so dumb. And so clearly, painfully into each other.
I hope you'll join me in finding out and watching them grow when the time comes!