Chapter Text
Shane Hollander laced up his first pair of skates when he was just three years old. He could hardly stand on the ice on his own, held up only by his father’s hands slipped under his armpits, but he still insisted on going back every single weekend. By the time he was five, he was skating laps around the other kids who occasionally showed up to the rink. Skating became something that his life revolved around. He thought about it constantly, suffering impatiently through school days until he could crawl into the backseat of his mother’s car and beg her to take him to the local Ottawa ice rink.
Ice skating became an integral part of him from such a young age. Hockey, naturally, came along with it. Really, without his mother signing him up for the local little’s junior hockey league when he was six, he probably wouldn’t have made it so far into his professional career. The scrape of his blades against the rough ice always had the hair on his arms raising and his heart rate increasing. Watching the solid puck slide into the net was one of his favorite things, something he’d watch for hours on end over any cartoon. Even at just six years old, Shane Hollander and hockey were synonymous, and less than fifteen years later, there would be no one without the other.
So that's why, at just seven years old, Shane was the best kid on the Ottawa little’s junior hockey team. That was, until Ilya Rozanov showed up.
Shane was sitting on the bench, pulling the laces of his skates as tight as they would go. It was never tight enough. He looped the black laces around his hands and pulled, huffing with effort as he crossed them over, threaded them through the holes, and repeated the process. His fingers fumbled through the process of tying them.
Someone sat down next to him, and Shane glanced up quickly, eyes wide. No one usually sat next to him, the other kids having formed groups that excluded him almost immediately. It was lonely at the top, he supposed, not that he would ever say that out loud in fear of sounding egotistical.
A boy was next to him, already pulling his skates from his black duffel bag. Shane had never seen him before, not at the rink or at practice. He was clearly slightly taller than Shane, even when sitting, but seemed to be a similar age. The boy had stony blue eyes and a boyish face framed by aureate curls. There was a small yet distinctive mole on his cheek, and he had a pronounced cupid's bow.
Even in Shane’s little seven-year-old mind, he knew this kid was pretty. For a boy, anyway. The boy in question glanced over and caught Shane looking. He tilted his head slightly, and Shane sort of felt like prey under his gaze. Neither of them said anything. They just stared at each other for a minute before they both looked away, resuming their respective activities.
Stepping onto the ice was probably the closest to religion that Shane had ever gotten. Neither of his parents were religious, but he’d heard kids in school talk about God, and his parents had always said that some people believe different things, and that he should always be respectful. Still, his parents did not believe in any God as far as he knew, but Shane imagined that if he did want to worship something, it would probably be hockey.
Shane learned, as all the kids gathered together in front of the coach, that the boy who had sat next to him was named Ilya Rozanov, and he had just moved from Russia. He would be skating with them. During the whole introduction, Ilya’s blue eyes had been locked on Shane, who was doing everything in his power to avoid looking at him. It wasn’t because he didn’t like Ilya. He hardly knew the boy. It was more so that Ilya was new, and Shane didn’t want to make the poor kid an outcast by hanging around him.
It was better if Ilya just joined one of the groups that had already been formed.
Ilya, much to Shane’s chagrin, seemed to have other plans.
Somehow, Ilya had managed to latch onto Shane during practice. Every turn, every pass, every assist, Ilya was there. Despite the Russian boy’s clear limited English vocabulary, he played hockey well. Almost as well as Shane.
Even after practice, as Shane made his way back to his stuff, Ilya trailed after him. Of course, their stuff was right next to each other, but Shane expected Ilya to move it and go sit with the other kids to degear.
He did not do this.
Ilya plopped himself right back down next to Shane and began quietly removing his skates. Shane bit his lip, wondering if he should say something. How did he communicate to the other boy that hanging around Shane would ruin his chances of forming a friend group within the team?
Shane was weird. He couldn’t make eye contact well, he didn’t do well with small talk, and he couldn’t force himself to be in the loud environment that his other teammates thrived in. It definitely didn’t help that he didn’t look the same as the rest of them.
Shane did not say any of this. Instead, he removed his gear, stuffed it in his bag, and shuffled off to the stands where his parents were sitting. He did not look back at Ilya, even though he kind of wanted to.
Shane did not expect it to happen again, but it did. The very next practice, Ilya once again sat right next to him, geared up with him, and skated onto the ice with him, all without saying a word. They seemed to just exist near each other, like planets orbiting and never colliding. There was no verbal communication exchanged between them at any point, and yet they seemed to read each other flawlessly.
Ilya didn’t speak to him then, either. It wasn’t until their third practice together that he finally spoke up.
Shane arrived five minutes early, like always. He set his bag down and sat in his usual place, rubbing his thighs awkwardly before beginning his routine. Ilya arrived exactly five minutes later, sitting down in his spot next to Shane, carved out and invisibly labeled. It was like an unspoken rule. All the kids sat together at the end of the bench, and Ilya sat next to Shane.
It was quiet for a few minutes before Ilya turned his head towards Shane and allowed his lips to form the word that had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks now.
“Hello.” He said. That was it. Just hello.
Shane blinked slowly, stared back at Ilya. Shane had expected the accent. Ilya was from Russia, after all, but he hadn't expected how soft his voice would be, how even just saying ‘hello’ seemed thought out and extended, like each letter was said very carefully. Dark brown met cold blue, and Shane held eye contact for as long as his buffering brain would allow. He swallowed, willing his voice to work, to form some kind of reply.
“Hi.” He responded, not knowing what else to say. He offered a nervous little smile. They stared at each other again before they finally broke, each of them quickly lacing up their skates and moving to join the rest of the team on the ice.
They didn’t speak again until after practice, when Shane had managed to pry his skates off of his feet and Ilya was zipping up his bag.
“Good job.” Ilya said quietly, eyes flickering from the rink and back to Shane. The dark haired boy looked up from his spot on the ground, where he was crouched to shove his gear into his bag.
“Thank you.” He responded, standing up slowly. He glanced back at their other teammates, all of whom were laughing, paying no attention to them at all. Shane hadn’t seen Ilya interact with any of them, and a small feeling of guilt tugged at his heart. Was that his fault? Shane turned back to Ilya and nearly jumped back, surprised to see the blond boy holding out his hand.
“Ilya.” He said. Shane blinked once. Twice. A third time before he finally reached out and took Ilya’s hand. He liked the way the other boy said his own name. Il-ya. Shane liked that name a lot. It was his favorite name, he decided.
“Shane.” He responded, unconsciously matching the soft, hesitant cadence of Ilya’s voice.
They were friends then, Shane thought. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe Ilya would learn all about how odd Shane was and decided that it wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. Maybe Ilya would slowly pull away and migrate over to their other teammates. Maybe Ilya would absolve himself of everything Shane Hollander related and absorb into the group of faceless people that haunted the edge of Shane’s vision.
Or maybe Ilya would stay.
Please stay. Shane begs to no one.