1 – 2 of 2 Works in DachOsmin
- DachOsmin ×
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Ilya looks up at the black night sky and mutters something in Russian. “You want to pay me fifty Canadian dollars to fuck you?” Or: Shane runs into Ilya on a street corner the night before the Prospect Cup and makes some assumptions. (Because every fandom needs a mistaken-for-hooker fic).
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 4,027
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76814166
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It’s a dick move and right now Ilya is glad he has a reputation as a dick, so no one asks too many questions. You’re supposed to pick someone that fucked up a bit, someone the team is already kind of mad at. Picking a team’s captain, especially when he hasn’t done anything wrong—you don’t do that. Or: Ilya notices that Hollander is off his game, and decides that a visit to the winner's room just might fix that. Ilya Rozanov has been watching Shane Hollander, and he doesn’t like what he sees. He’s been losing, for one thing. The Metros start the 2015 season with a string of losses, and though some of it is because of things outside Hollander’s control—an injured goalie, a rookie that keeps letting passes through—even the commentators are saying that Hollander hasn’t been himself, hasn’t been playing like everyone knows he can. He’s fumbling through games with none of his usual fire, and it has everyone scratching their heads and asking why. It’s been on the tip of Ilya’s tongue, to ask why. He’s opened their text thread more times than he can count, started typing out a question. Every time, he deletes it. They haven’t spoken since Las Vegas. The time has built up in the silence between them, calcified. No one likes losing. Ilya knows this, knows that if it were him he wouldn’t be handling it any better. He’d be handling it differently—he still remembers the bruised knuckles and sour stomach from his last losing streak, the fist fights in bars and the broken bottles of bad liquor —but he’d be a mess too. It still rankles though. Hollander is supposed to be the sensible one; he doesn’t get to crash out like this. It’s not right. Ilya needs to do something about this. ** Step one: in the next game they play against each other, crush the Metros in a humiliating 5 to 1 defeat. It’s not that hard to do. The Metros put up a token resistance in the first period, but they crumble after Ilya makes his first goal, and then all the momentum is on the Bear’s side. Hollander certainly doesn’t try all that hard to stop him. It makes Ilya’s teeth itch to see Hollander sleep walking through the game, taking abuse without even chirping back. He doesn’t look at Hollander as the seconds tick down, as the fans cheer and moan, as the talking heads once again loudly ask each other what’s gotten into Montreal’s golden boy. He only lets himself sneak a glance at Hollander after, when the spectators have all gone and the two teams are left behind in the empty stadium. Hollander’s not looking at him, just staring down at the ice. Well, all according to plan. He’s going to have to look at Ilya by the end of the night. Ilya offers the Metros his biggest winning smile, the one they put on the covers of magazines when the advertisers want him to play at being a charming rogue. “Was fun, yes?” One of the Metros—Renaud, he thinks—rolls his eyes. “Who do you want? For the Winner’s Room.” He pretends to think about it, gives himself a second so it’s not quite so obvious that he woke up today knowing that he needed to win, just so he could do this. “Let’s say… Hollander.” The Metros line erupts in angry murmurs and some of the hotter heads make abortive moves towards him, knuckles creaking as they grip their sticks. They’ve got a point. It’s a dick move and right now Ilya is glad he has a reputation as a dick, so no one asks too many questions. You’re supposed to pick someone that fucked up a bit, someone the team is already kind of mad at. Picking a team’s captain, especially when he hasn’t done anything wrong—you don’t do that. In fact, Hollander would be well within his rights to say no. Players have rights, after all. This isn’t the 80s; you can opt out. But Ilya knows Hollander won’t say no. The way his shoulders hunch in on themselves, the way he’s staring at the ice—Ilya can tell he’s carrying the entire loss on his back, this one and all the others, never mind that half his line men couldn’t find the fucking puck when it was right in front of them. Part of Ilya is hoping Hollander takes the out, tells him to fuck off. But only part. He stretches his smile wider, leans in to rest his chin on his stick. “If Hollander is too chicken, I can take your new kid instead.” He spares a wink for the rookie in question. The poor kid looks absolutely miserable, like it’s his fault that the entire team’s defense collapsed in the third period. “Yeah, no, that’s not necessary.” And finally Hollander is looking at him, glaring up through dark lashes. A bit of fire back in his eyes, and there’s a cut on his lip bleeding slightly. Ilya wants to bite it. “Shane, man, come on,” Pike says, placing a hand on Hollander’s shoulder. Hollander shrugs the hand off with a bit-back wince. “It’s fine. I can handle it.” Pike tries again. “Shane—” “I said I could handle it.” “Don’t worry,” Ilya puts in, “I promise I won’t break him.” Pike bites back a curse; Dagenais spits at him. But Hollander doesn’t say anything at all. He tries again. Leers at Hollander, licks his lips suggestively. “We’re going to have fun together, aren’t we, Captain?” Tell me to fuck off! Ilya wants to scream. Call me an asshole, you know you want to! But Hollander doesn’t say anything at all, just stares at him with those same wounded eyes before giving a dazed nod and turning away, back to the locker room. ** Yeah, okay, Ilya was laying it on a bit thick. So all in all, it’s not really a surprise when he exits the Raiders’ locker room and runs into three of the Metros waiting for him with murder
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,749
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #76637506