Chapter Text
"Since we've clearly been missing an edge in the playoffs for the last couple of years, management has decided to bring in that edge as a new permanent part of the coaching team."
Coach Le Claire's voice rang clear over the ice, echoing slightly in the rafters. The ice was home to both a number of well-known players, as well as new faces and draftees trying to get a place on the roster. The new season wouldn't officially begin for another month, but the team was back on the ice after that just a bit too long summer off the ice.
They'd been eliminated during the second round of playoffs this time, just like last year. The year before that, they'd reached Conference finals, and the year before that, just the first round. They hadn't reached the finals since last time they'd won in 2014, the first year Ilya Rozanov carried the title as Captain. Even though they'd consistently been in the playoffs during his entire time as captain, they were hungry for another Cup title.
Ilya Rozanov, drafted first overall of his class, generational talent, surpassing even veterans in their prime in speed, accuracy and skill, especially wanted another cup. Only just turned 27 years old, he was barely starting his prime years, but some critical voices were already discussing if he was actually as great as predicted, or that he'd simply been lucky with the first cup win. Never mind that he consistently performed better in points and stats than just about everyone in the league.
He was, technically, in a league of his own. Unfortunately, it took a both incredibly resilient and sometimes lucky team to win the Cup.
"Instead of doing shorter runs with consulting coaches," LeClaire continued, "It's been decided that we're gonna add a skating coach to the team. This will ensure we're going to get a closer look and a better, more consistent plan for improvement for each and every single one of you — yes, even you, Rozanov," he added at Ilya's snort. He grinned widely and leaned against his stick as few members of the team chuckled.
"This is Shane Hollander," the assistant coach Marc said with a wave to a new figure that slid forward on the ice, "He's won more gold in pair skating that you'd be able to dream of, including at the Olympics this February before he chose to retire with his partner and we lucked out in getting him here."
The first thing Ilya noticed was that, unlike the other assisting coaches, he was wearing skates — hockey skates, even though he was supposedly a figure skater. He was dressed in a pair of thick, loose grey sweats, a smooth black fleece branded with the Bears' logo over a charcoal turtleneck just visible where the jacket was zipped almost to the neck — casual, not ready for hockey, but dressed for time on the ice. He was taller and broader than Ilya would expect of a figure skater, thighs clearly thick and strong even half-hidden in the sweatpants. His glossy black hair pulled back in a small bun and almond-shaped eyes betrayed his Asian heritage, but what gave Ilya's eyes a pause was the constellation of freckles generously dusted over his high cheekbones and straight, strong nose.
"Hi everyone," he said with a hesitant smile and a smooth voice, "and thank you for the short introduction. I can't wait to get started with you."
His voice directed Ilya's attention to his lips, and the sight of the lush, pink mouth felt almost like a punch to the chest.
Shane Hollander was beautiful. Maybe even the prettiest man Ilya had ever seen.
"And don't worry, I do know hockey. I'm from Ottawa, played hockey as a kid, and later trained beside hockey players in Montréal for years," he explained, the t dropping from the Quebecois pronunciation of the city name. A groan of discontent rolled through the crowd and Shane lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture.
"We'll try not to hold it against you," Marlow called, and the groan transformed into laughter. Shane laughed too, and the lift of his cheeks highlighted the freckles in a way that sent a familiar bolt of hunger through Ilya. He wondered if the freckles spread underneath his clothes, an image of a pale-skinned shoulder speckled with freckles rising unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to bite into that and watch his own marks bloom beside the dots.
"Hollander is going to be watching you all do your thing today, and then focus on the rookies first, but everyone is going to get sessions with him!" Le Claire's yell broke both Ilya's inappropriate thoughts and the hum of laughter. "How exactly it's gonna work is up to him, within the time restraints we have in general. I want you all to be fucking perfect before the end of this season. I want you all to give your everything to reach that next level we've been missing for the last four seasons."
Spread nods and vocal affirmations from the players, while the rookies simply looked awestruck. LeClaire nodded at Ilya, who took the cue.
"Okay, you fuckers, welcome back. Let's hope you rookies have something, or the new coach can help, because we fucking need it to get what we want. And I want it this year," Ilya drawled, skating slowly up past the coaching team as he spoke, eyes roaming over the prospects. A few looked promising — a huge beast of a guy and two scrappy guys that'd probably make a great defensemen if they could keep up. Three young kids he recognised from tapes he'd watched on Le Claire's request over the summer, a new draftee and two from their lower league team that might be ready for the bump up. "We can not rely on other teams to fuck up. We can not hope they get injuries. We will be better and we will win, yes?"
A scattered response of "yes"'es filled the rink as Ilya slowed to a stop close to Hollander.
"Good. Now follow Coach LeClaire like good little chickens," he ended with a nod and a shooing motion of his free hand not carrying his stick. The loose assembly broke up and both the other two assisting coaches began yelling instructions along with LeClaire. Ilya turned to face the new skater.
"Shane Hollander," he said slowly with a smile, stuffing his glove in his armpit to reach out a hand to shake. He met Hollander's dark eyes, and was once again assaulted with the view of the smattering of freckles adorning his pretty face.
"Ilya Rozanov," Hollander replied and grabbed his hand, "I've been looking forward to working with you. Your style is very aggressive and explosive, but I think we can concentrate that power even more."
His hands were harder than Ilya expected, clearly marked with the callouses of someone who used his hands in training. Weightlifting maybe? Up close, it was clear that Hollander kept himself in a very good shape, his shoulders wide and square.
"You are bigger than skaters are, usually," Ilya remarked and inclined his head to the man's shoulders, "Normally, they have bodies like sticks."
Hollander's face did something strange, but settled in bemusement. "Pair skating is a bit different. The man has to be big enough to do throws and lifts with his partner," he explained, releasing Ilya's hand to lift his arms above his head, as if to give a demonstration of how he'd hold a partner high. It only succeeded in making the fleece raise up and give a view of his incredibly trim waist in the charcoal compression shirt tucked into the waistband of his sweats, which was folded over once on itself. Ilya's urge to search for freckles to bite returned twice-fold.
"Don't mind Roz, he was raised by Russian wolves and never learnt any manners," St. Simone's lilting voice came from behind Ilya, where his two A's had skated up to meet the new coach too. Marlow and St. Simone were both enormous guys even out of gear, and they cut imposing figures all geared up like now. Hollander seemed used to the physicality of hockey players, not looking intimidated as he reached a hand out to shake again.
"He's just being blunt, right?" Hollander said, a pleasant and slightly stiff smile fixed on his face. Sainty answered in a quick rattle of French, which made Hollander bark out a short laugh and answer in the same curling language.
"Blyat, not one more," Ilya complained as Marlow greeted him as well.
"You're not leaving a great impression, Cap," Marlow rumbled in his deep voice. Hollander's smile turned smaller, but it made it look a bit more sincere.
"Really, Rozanov's reputation precedes him. I already know he's an asshole," Hollander said with a shrug, which made Marlow and St. Simone burst out laughing while Ilya gasped theatrically, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt.
Le Claire's sharp voice interrupted them. "Hollander!"
The man in question nodded at the three players and pushed off to skate to where LeClaire had collected a bunch of rookies and potential call-ups. His stride was incredibly smooth and natural, skates gliding almost soundlessly over the ice in the dim of the talking in the rink; He definitely moved like someone who spent almost more time on the ice than off it. It was a different kind of confidence of movement that Ilya and his players had, which was more raw and often aggressive in style. Shane Hollander moved on the ice like he was a part of it, smooth, unforgiving, and beautiful.
Even though he kept part of his focus on the drills and training, Ilya still ended up using a significant part of the day watching Hollander. He had a laser focus on whatever he was observing and a not unkind, but very direct way of guiding and correcting issues. His movements were such a contrast to the new players' rough edges and clumsy turns, but Ilya could already see how and why it could end up benefiting the entire team to get the figure skating exercises worked into the rutine—and the practical example came quick when Hollander wove and spun between the players as they were almost close to hitting him, avoiding intentional or accidental checks with little fanfare.
Maybe a bit of fanfare, honestly. Ilya could see he wasn't the only one of the seasoned players—they had collected at one end of the rink to do some low-effort shooting and passing drills and gossip like old women—who'd been shooting looks at their new coach to gauge what he'd be able to bring to the team.
At one point, Hollander shed the fleece and tied it around his hips in the way figure skaters seemed so fond of. It showed off the skin-tight compression shirt he was wearing underneath and just how an incredible shape he was in, the muscles of his upper body well-defined, swelling and stretching with his movements. He wasn't quite as built as many of the players were straight off of bulking in the off-season, but he was definitely not weak. A key-strap of childishly big plastic beads of alternating black and gold in no discernible pattern hung around his neck, and near the clip that held his keycard, six beads broke the colour scheme with a colourful pop of a classic rainbow.
This is going to become dangerous, Ilya couldn't help but think to himself, almost turning a bit lightheaded as he watched Hollander bend at the waist to adjust the ties of one skate, showcasing both great balance and the greatest fucking ass Ilya had ever had the pleasure of looking at.
It took some effort to focus on their own drills, but Ilya managed; It wasn't like they were being very serious about on the first day of training camp anyway. Most of the players had half their focus on the rookies anyway, trying to gauge who would be the most promising prospects. They did have a few spots open on the roster due to trades and two retirements and the rookies all knew, so they were doing their very best to listen to the coaches and showcase their best from day one.
Marlow told the story of "breaking in" and seasoning the new grill he'd gotten over the summer and threatened a large barbecue get-together when the team was more set, maybe before the preseason games began. Connors bragged about a vacation to Italy with his girlfriend Rachel, while simultaneously complaining about the Italian coffee culture. Ilya stayed mostly quiet and just gave a shrug when asked about his summer.
"You went back home this time?" Carmichael asked as they slapped pucks between them.
"Nyet. I wanted to experience the Boston summer," Ilya said, keeping his eyes down on the moving sticks.
"And so, what's your thought on it?" Marlow grinned as he slipped past, weaving a puck back and forth between the other players.
"The weather is shit," he exclaimed, prompting laughter from the teammates who overheard, "Too hot, too wet and sweaty."
They ribbed him for it for a while, teasing him for his Russian nature and love of cold, fresh air. They all knew he didn't have the best relationship with his home country or family, so no one prodded more than necessary. Ilya loved them a bit for it, since leaving his country for good had been a touchy subject for him in the year that had gone since he'd left the last time, when he had left the apartment to his brother and set up the secured trust fund for his niece. Andrei had threatened to keep his niece from him for a very long time and even refused to let them meet for that last visit, which in turn pushed Ilya to finally close off that connection in his life. Katya would be able to contact him if she wished; He had left a letter in a bank box for when she was old enough.
Temlett, a mediocre-to-good defenseman on the third line, joined Carmy and Ilya to flip a few pucks. He was just starting his third season with the Bears and Ilya knew enough of him to know he was only joining to either schmooze for the captain or gossip.
"So, what do you think the deal is with the new coach?"
Gossip, then.
"I mean, having the same skating coach will probably help a lot, instead of the temporary consulting ones we've been using over the last couple of years," Carmy said, pausing to let Ilya and Temlett juggle between them.
Temlett wrinkled his nose and missed a puck from Ilya. "I mean, I get he's good at skating, but do you really think a pansy like that will make a difference for us?"
Almost feeling more than seeing Carmy stiffen slightly, Ilya straightened, letting the puck Temlett had passed glide right past him as he skated towards Temlett, pushing a gloved finger against his chest. They were fairly close, and even though Ilya hit him quickly, he continued and pushed them back towards the wall behind Temlett.
"I have said before and I will say again. No shit like that on my ice, on my team," Ilya said, voice hard and steady like the ice beneath their skates. "You have any Olympic gold medals, no? Then shut the fuck up."
Temlett's back hit the wall behind him, his face turning ashy pale underneath his dark summer tan, which was a very fair reaction when faced with an angry Rozanov.
"It's not a big deal" Temlett said nervously, shooting looks behind his captain to see they've drawn a bit of a crowd, although it doesn't look like LeClaire has noticed yet. Even then, they all knew LeClaire trusted Rozanov to nip problems in the bud and to be fair about it too.
"Is a big deal. They hired fancy gold medal skater to teach you to skate, so you listen to Coach and keep your fucking shit opinion to yourself." Ilya emphasized the three words with pokes to Temlett's chest. "Even better," he continued, voice dropping lower, almost into a growl, "stop being a bigot and I'll let you keep your teeth, yes?"
Temlett gulped and nodded enthusiastically. Ilya clapped his hand twice on his face, just a tiny bit too hard to be friendly, before he skated away. Carmichael was shaking his head as they picked up the pucks again. Temlett was smart enough to make himself scarce and started doing some stick-handling drills by himself.
Ilya caught the eye of LeClaire across the rink and gave a nod, which the coach received with a nod as well, before his eyes snagged on Hollander, who were closer than Ilya had expected. Beside him with three of the rookies, whose eyes were wide at the display from their potential captain.
Hollander's eyes were following Ilya closely, arms crossed and his face stiff in a thoughtful expression, which made Ilya believe that he might have been close enough to overhear the exchange. Ilya let himself smirk in a way he knew would be very handsome and sent a wink to the new coach, whose expression turned carefully blank as he turned back towards the rookies to get them focused on their drills again. Ilya could just hear his voice, smooth and direct in a way that made the young ones listen closely.