the more you look, the more you find (all around you all the time)

His stupid fucking lighter isn’t working. 

It’s kind of an embarrassing moment to be approached, but he glances up anyways. 

"Shane Hollander," the guy continues, as if he’s not the face of this whole tournament, easily recognizable. "I wanted to, um— say hello to you."

He pronounces his last name differently than the announcers and TV reporters do, dropping the H entirely. ‘Ollander. 

His accent is unexpected, and Ilya realizes that he’s never actually heard him talk before. 

"Oh, hey," Ilya offers, taking the hand Hollander has extended to shake. "Good to meet you."

Hollander blinks. 

"Yes." He smiles awkwardly. "Good."

Ilya goes back to trying to light his smoke. 

"Um, I do not know if—" Hollander points to Ilya, and then to the no smoking sign behind him— "here is… right place for this."

Ilya’s lighter sparks to life. He shrugs, as the cigarette finally lights and he can tuck the lighter away. 

"No one’s gonna stop me." He takes the inhale he’s been waiting for. "Where’s the accent from? I thought you were Canadian, but you don’t exactly sound like it."

Hollander looks lost for a moment. 

"My, um— my accent?" he asks. He points to himself, like he’s trying to clarify. "You— sorry. My English is not… you speak very fast. Can you ask slower?"

Ilya snorts. 

"Canada speaks English," he says, much slower. "You don’t. Where are you from?"

(He realizes belatedly that he may have just come across as extraordinarily fucking racist— he might be here playing for Russia, but he sure represented his American side with that stupid question. Shit.)

(But maybe Hollander is also playing on some technicality like Ilya, who hasn’t actually lived in Russia since he was eleven, but isn’t an American citizen yet, because of all the immigration hoops Mama has had to jump through. Your international eligibility goes by the country you have a passport for, and the Russian media loves the idea of an American-trained star who plays for his homeland. He gets plenty of shit from his teammates for his accent sounding bizarre and Americanized, but they leave him alone when he reminds them who’s carrying the team.)

"Oh." Hollander has gone a little red, beneath his freckles. "I am from… French Canada? Québec? Do you know? Very… very small town there, no English, only French. I try to learn, but— is a bit hard." 

Ilya feels mildly stupid. He knew, obviously, that they speak French in Canada, but he didn’t know it was, like— some people’s only language. He’d sort of assumed everyone was fluent in both. 

"Huh. Cool."

"Your English is very good," Hollander offers. 

Ilya laughs. 

"I mean, yeah— I grew up in Minneapolis." 

Hollander tilts his head, confused. 

"But, you play for—?"

"I’m Russian, I was born there, but I moved to the US as a kid."

(It always feels too simple to say he moved. Mama dragged him out of the house in the middle of the night, with just a backpack of his clothing and a suitcase of essentials that she’d thrown together. She didn’t tell him where they were going until they were in a taxi to the airport, where she promised him that neither his father nor his brother would ever lay a hand on him again. That’s a little much to tell someone he’s just met.)

"Ah." Hollander nods. He pauses, then his next words come out somewhat stilted, like he’s rehearsed them. "You are an excellent player to watch."

Ilya can’t help but grin. 

"Thanks. You too." He takes another puff of his smoke. "I doubt you’ll be this nice when we beat you."

He watches Hollander blink, taking a second to understand— god, his skin is infuriatingly perfect— and then smirk. 

"You will not." He rocks on his heels, then turns to look over his shoulder. "Ah, um… my parents wait for me. I must—" He jerks a thumb backwards. "Go, I think."

Ilya nods. 

"Yeah, my mom’s probably looking for me. If you see, like, a tall Russian lady looking really mad… don’t tell her where I am."

Hollander nods, though Ilya isn’t sure how much of that he actually got. 

"Does your mom know that you…" He gestures like he’s smoking. "Cigarette?"

"Of course. We’re Russian, she buys them for me." That’s a lie. Mama smacks them out of his hands and threatens to send him to a hockey camp in Siberia where they’ll make him fight a bear, if he wants to act so tough. "She’s annoyed I wanted to stay and watch other teams practice, so she’s been stuck here all day… not that there’s much else to do in Regina."

Hollander nods again, probably even more lost now. 

"I will see you in our game Friday," he says. 

He goes for a second handshake. Maybe that’s a French-Canadian thing, so Ilya humours it to try and make up for his rude question before. 

Hollander’s hands are very soft, and very warm. 

"Good luck," Ilya offers. 

Hollander laughs as he starts to walk away. 

"Ah, no thank you. Keep your luck. You will need it more."

Ilya’s jaw drops— somewhere at the intersection of surprised and charmed— and Hollander continues around the corner, out of sight. 

This guy’s going to be a problem, isn’t he. 

-

Ilya googles him later, on a hotel computer. 

Hollander is the captain and top scorer of a team called the Chicoutimi Saguenéens, which Ilya decides not to even try to pronounce; his hometown is listed as Saint-David-de-Falardeau, QC. He put up 120 points last season, then had an insane playoff run where he was averaging almost 3 points per game, won the Memorial Cup, and now seems on track to beat his own record this year. 

Ilya has heard of him plenty before this tournament, of course— they’re both being talked about for the 2009 draft, and Hollander has probably had the same influx of scouts staring him down at every game lately, but Mama has been encouraging him to tune out the noise and focus on himself, so he’s been trying not to read too much about other prospects. 

It’s been nice to have her here for the tournament, even though they haven’t actually seen that much of each other between practices and games and team events. It’s embarrassing to admit how much he misses her during the season— his billet family in Sioux Falls is nice and all, an overly-friendly couple in their sixties that treat him like their own, but he’s always been a mama’s boy. Two months into his first USHL season last year, he’d called her crying and begged her to make the four hour drive to come pick him up… she’d talked him down, of course, but he sort of gets the urge to try again every time he goes through a rough patch. He doesn’t like being away from her. 

"Ilyushka," she sighs, approaching behind him and settling a hand in his hair. "You just spent all day watching hockey, and now you need to look at it online, too?"

He has Hollander’s highlights pulled up. He’d sort of forgotten that a hotel business centre is a public area, and anyone could easily see him sitting here obsessing. At least it’s just her. 

"I wanted to look this kid up, he came and said hi to me earlier. He barely speaks English, but he’s nice. We play him on Friday."

"Worry about him on Friday, then. We should go out for dinner."

Ilya closes his tabs with a sigh. 

"Okay, fine. Can we have pasta?"

-

They end up at some kind of chain Italian restaurant, across a busy road from their hotel— it’s tacky, loud, and full of children, which is kind of fun. 

As their server walks them to their table, Ilya’s eyes go wide. 

He spots none other than Shane Hollander, sitting with two adults who must be his parents, talking in rapid- fire French over bowls of pasta. He’s smiling, and looks younger than seventeen with his rozy cheeks and bright eyes. 

"Mama, this is that player I was talking to earlier." Ilya nudges her. "Sitting right there in the Canada hoodie."

She glances over subtly as they slide into their booth. 

"He looks very sweet. Do you think you’ll be friends?"

"Friends? We’re on opposite teams, and he’s the only person here who might be as good as me. He’s, like, my only competition for number one in the draft. I read an article today saying we apparently hate each other. We can’t be friends."

"Well, you just said today that he was very nice and doesn’t speak much English. Maybe he needs a friend— you two are going through the same thing, after all. You should give him your email. You could be pen pals."

"Mama," Ilya groans. "That’s ridiculous."

But while they’re eating, he thinks about it, and—

He likes his team in Sioux Falls, they’re good guys, but none of them are quite up to his level. No one can relate to the kind of stress and pressure he’s under, with all the media and scouting attention around him lately. If he has one bad game, there’s an article about it on a hockey site in the morning, saying he doesn’t have what it takes to go first overall. He failed a test at school last week, and it was on a hockey gossip blog hours later, telling everyone he lacks discipline. Everything is heightened right now, and Shane Hollander might be the only other person who gets it. 

"Do you have a pen in your purse?" he asks Mama, when he notices the Hollanders asking for their bill. He grabs a clean napkin off the table. "I think you’re right. I’ll give him my email."

She grins. She loves being right. 

He scribbles down ilyarozanov1991@hotmail.com on the napkin, then sighs, brushes a hand through his hair, and looks over at the Hollanders again. They’re putting their jackets on. 

He crosses the space between them in a few long strides, moving before he can overthink it. 

"Hey," he says, awkwardly pulling up beside their table. "Shane Hollander? Funny seeing you again."

He’s careful to pronounce his name exactly as he heard it earlier— he knows how annoying it is when English speakers keep saying your name all weirdly. 

Hollander looks surprised. 

"Oh! Hello." He turns to his parents quickly. "Maman, Papa, ceci est Ilya Rozanov."

"Ah, je sais," his mom says, then switches to English, in an accent much like her son’s. She’s giving Ilya an appraising look. "Hello, Rozanov. Is very nice to meet you."

Ilya puts on his politest smile, knowing his own mother is watching too. 

"Yeah, it’s really nice to meet you guys. Shane is an awesome player. You must be very proud."

"You’re not so bad yourself," Hollander’s dad says, a little friendlier, his English much smoother. "You boys have a lot in common, I’d say."

Ilya nods. 

"Definitely. Um—" he holds up the napkin, and addresses Hollander again— "my mom said I should give you my email. She thinks we should be pen pals."

There’s an adorable scrunch in Hollander’s face. 

"Pen… pals?"

Ilya winces. That was cringy. 

"Sorry, that sounds weird. I mean, like— we could stay in touch, between now and the draft. The media and everything is kinda crazy right now, so it might be nice to talk to someone who gets it."

Hollander still seems mildly confused, but his dad says something to him in French, probably translating, and then he grins. 

"Okay, I see. Hockey is same for you— much attention? Very crazy?" he laughs. 

"Yes, exactly." He sets the napkin with his email on the table. "We could write. Maybe be friends, because we both understand what it’s like."

Hollander picks it up, reads it, then tucks it in his pocket, still smiling. 

"I will write you. Practice my English."

"Perfect." Ilya is smiling right back. "Maybe I’ll learn some French."

"Parfait."

They fist bump, somewhat awkwardly, because Ilya isn’t entirely sure how to end this interaction and Hollander doesn’t seem to know either. 

"See you on the ice," Ilya offers. 

Hollander waves. 

"Yes. See you."

Ilya goes back to his table, and the Hollanders get up to leave. He sees Mama exchange friendly waves with his parents. 

"I’m proud of you, Ilyushka. This will be good for you."

He knows she worries about him not having any real friends. 

He’s popular at school, goes to parties and stuff, and his team likes him well enough, but he’s not close with anyone— people like him because they want to be able to say yeah, I was friends with Ilya Rozanov in high school when he’s famous in a couple years, not because they actually make much effort to get to know him. He’s constantly surrounded by people, but still lonely enough that he phones home every single night, thankful for the unlimited long-distance minutes on his billet family’s landline. 

"He might not even write to me. Maybe he was just being polite."

"Why do you think that?"

"He seems too nice. No one is that friendly. It’s probably fake."

"He’s Canadian. They’re nice, you know this. I saw how happy he looked when you went up to him, I’m sure he’ll want to stay in touch. And even if he doesn't, you tried."

Ilya nods. 

"Okay. Yeah."

He digs back into his spaghetti. 

He can worry about making friends with Shane Hollander after he beats him in this tournament. 

-

From: shollander@aol.com
Subject: Bonjour from Québec

Hello Ilya,

I am sorry it took me some time to write to you. Congratulations again on your gold medal last month. My English tutor is helping me write this :)

I am back in my town now, training with my team in Chicoutimi again. It is very cold and there is lots of snow. The drive from my house into the city for practice is very long. I have many long bus rides to games, too.

I saw on the internet that you play in Sioux Falls. Do you like it there? Is it cold? Do you live with your parents or a host family? How is your season going?

I read an article about us in a hockey magazine. They call us "rivals" and say we "fight" for #1 draft pick, but I think I would like it much better to be friends. I hope you feel the same. There have been many scouts at my games, have they been at yours too?

It was very nice to meet you at the tournament in Regina. Thank you for giving me your email. I made a Facebook account last week and I am wondering if you want to be friends on there too.

Good luck in your next games. I hope you will write back.

 Shane Hollander :)

-

They keep in touch over the next few months, between emails and Facebook messages and the occasional text— though Mama always complains when the international texting fees show up on his monthly bill.

The draft comes around in what feels like no time— they’ve each had a good playoff run, contributing to the hype around them, and then they’re suddenly landing in LA for what’s going to be the biggest night of their lives.

Ilya’s flight gets in first. He heads to the hotel with Mama, and has just enough time to settle in and change before he’s supposed to be in one of the conference rooms for a short, informal interview about how he’s feeling ahead of tomorrow’s big event.

He gives his usual answers— he’s excited and happy to be here, he’s trying not to put too much pressure on himself, he’s confident in the season he’s had and the work he’s put in to get here. The final question, though, is:  

"The topic on everyone’s minds this weekend is whether it’ll be you or Shane Hollander going first— if you could say something to your biggest rival right now, what would it be?"

They’re probably expecting him to give some kind of canned hockey-robot answer, like may the best player win or you're going down, but he simply laughs. 

"I’d tell him— answer my freaking text, bro. My mom wants to know what time to make a dinner reservation for tonight."

The reporters in the room all laugh. 

"Seriously?" one asks. 

"Yes. His plane should’ve landed by now, he can answer me anytime."

Another round of laughter. 

"Really, though," Ilya adds, more seriously. "Hollander is a great player and a great guy. I don’t have a bad word to say about him. Obviously, we both want to be first tomorrow— but knowing we’ll still be friends no matter which order we get picked has really helped take the pressure off ahead of this weekend. We’ll have dinner with our families and maybe go swimming in the hotel pool tonight, and then tomorrow we can be rivals. No use getting heated about it too early, when we might as well try to have a bit of fun while we can."

Things wrap up from there— his agent grabs him by the back of the shirt once they’re out in the hallway, and hisses:

"Really? Swimming in the hotel pool with the guy you’re supposed to hate?"

Ilya stifles a laugh. 

"What?"

Ben Foster, the New York-based agent he signed with last year, closes his eyes for a moment. 

"Ilya. You’re competing with him tomorrow for first overall draft pick. You’re supposed to be rivals."

"Yes. But… we’re not."

Ben sighs heavily. 

"I don’t care. Rivalries sell drama, they sell tickets, they make a team want to have you— you’re killing your own narrative here."

"What narrative?"

"The one where you and Shane Hollander hate each other, which has been the story since December. You threw it out the window."

Ilya folds his arms. 

"I’m not pretending to hate my friend just for people to write articles about it. They can write articles about us being adorable unlikely buddies— much more exciting. And surprising."

Ben runs a hand over his face.

"You know what’s annoying?" He pauses. "You were perfect for the rest of the interview— confident, relaxed, mature, everything we’ve worked on. And then you start going on about fucking Hollander."

Ilya’s phone buzzes in his pocket. 

7 is good. I am excited to swim later. 

Ilya laughs as he reads it. 

"Is that him?" Ben demands. "Talking about swimming?"

Ilya flashes him a grin. 

"Maybe."

Ben sighs dramatically. 

"I’m going to regret representing you, aren’t I?"

"No," Ilya says. 

"Why not?"

With a shrug, Ilya starts to head for the elevators. 

"Because I’m going first in the draft tomorrow."

-

He goes first. 

Boston picks him first, and Montréal picks Shane second. 

Shane runs to him backstage, interrupting an interview to wrestle him into a hug. 

"Félicitations, mon ami!" he shouts. 

"Hollander! Yes, dude!"

They're immediately jumping up and down in pure excitement, completely giddy. Ilya has been buzzing since the moment he heard his name, but now it’s actually hitting him that this is real. 

"We did it," Ilya laughs. "This is insane."

"You were first!"

"You got Montréal!"

They’re surrounded by cameras, and their agents are going to hate this footage, but those guys can suck several fat dicks, as far as Ilya’s concerned. He and his best friend just went first and second. They’re going to the NHL. For real. 

Last night, feet dangling in the pool that the hotel offered to keep open late just for them, Shane had confessed something. 

/

"You cannot tell anyone I say this, but knowing Montréal has second pick… I think I will not be so upset if you go first."

Ilya whips his head up to look at him. 

"Are you saying you want to go second?"

"No. No, of course not. Or… maybe. I do not know." He pauses, tracing his toes through the water. "I think I am scared about my English. To go to Boston."

"Your English is good!" Ilya says. "It’s gotten way better. You’d be totally fine— teams are used to having players who are still learning."

Shane gives a small, embarrassed shrug. 

"I know, but… it would be more easy for me in Montréal. I am not saying I want you to beat me tomorrow— of course I want to be the best, more than anything— but I think if you win, I will be happy for you, and maybe… soulagé. I don’t know this word. Like— can breathe better."

"Relieved?"

"Yes. This."

"Think of the franchise player you’d be there," Ilya chuckles. "A good Québec kid, the new face of the team. The whole city would be in love with you."

Shane laughs softly. 

"Probably, yes."

They’re quiet for a bit, contending with the fact their entire lives are going to change tomorrow. 

"I am very glad to have you," Shane finally says. "I think you are my best friend."

Ilya leans a little closer and bumps their shoulders together. 

"You’re mine, too."

/

So really, it all worked out today. 

Shane looks incredible in his Metros jersey and ball cap. He’s glowing. If he’s disappointed at all about being second, he’s not showing it— as they’re pulled apart again to keep doing their respective media, he’s conversing with the Metros executives in smooth, quick French, looking completely at ease compared to when he’s fumbling through English. He’s clearly going to fit in well there, and they all seem very happy to have him. 

Ilya hasn’t stopped smiling, and he’s pretty sure people have noticed that he keeps glancing over at Shane, but he doesn’t really care. 

This is the best day of his life, and the best day of his best friend’s life, and it’s amazing. 

(He kind of wants to kiss Shane.)

"—we’re gonna head to the press room for some photos," someone is saying when he tunes back in, "and then you’ll meet the national media for a few questions. Things are gonna move pretty fast tonight, but I promise you’ll get some time to process and celebrate later on."

"Maybe we’ll go swimming again," he blurts, because he’s a little too wired for his brain-to-mouth filter to be fully present. 

Thank god there’s not a microphone in his face, just a lady with a headset and a clipboard leading him down the hallway, who smiles and laughs at that. 

"This is gonna be the story of the weekend, y’know— you two being friends. I love it."

Ben is walking behind them and sighs audibly, still mad about his rivalry angle being ruined. 

Ilya simply turns back and winks at him. 

-

June 27, 2009 | Hockey Weekly

Last night, the 2009 NHL Draft answered the question that has dominated the hockey world for months: Rozanov or Hollander?

He can’t imagine being anything other than best friends with Shane Hollander— except for maybe, like, giving into that urge to kiss him that he had at the draft. That might not be so bad.

Maybe he’ll get his chance this summer.

End Notes

and then they STILL spend years skirting around their true feelings, because this is shane and ilya we’re talking about, but they probably get together faster than in canon and have a bit of an easier time in the closet bc they’re already publicly besties :)

if you leave a comment please know i am metaphorically kissing you on the mouth xoxo i love you