Chapter Text
July, 2014
Hayden: Hey thought you should see this
Hayden: https://www.thehockeynews.com/mlh/article/toronto-guardians-new-european-centre-bring-fans-new-hope/
Shane opens the article before he has a chance to read the link. A generic photo of the Guardians’ stadium is at the top of the page, underneath the flashy headline.
He furrows his brow, scrolling quickly, Hayden surely hadn’t just wanted Shane to read about fans trying to distract themselves from Toronto’s crappy season.
He recognizes that face even though it blurs beneath his thumb like a bullet train zipping by.
He scrolls back up. It is unmistakably Ilya Rozanov. His face cracked into an easy lopsided grin, his hazel eyes glowing green beneath the camera flash, his one sharp canine catching awkwardly on his bottom lip, his curls framing his too-pretty face.
Shane tosses his phone to the foot of his bed as if there were some massive spider on it. He feels his back slam awkwardly into the headboard. Something crawls up his spine, it’s warm, and humiliating, and childish. His skin is warm, and he’s furious.
June, 2007
“Who is that, I’ve never seen that guy before” J.J. said pointing at a figure on the ice, leaning over the boards talking to one of the guest coaches.
Shane shrugged, smoothing his thumb over his roll of stick-tape, “don’t know.” he replied, leaning forward to get a better look at him. It was hard to see him clearly, since he already had all his gear on, but he spoke with animated arm motions and seemed to be talking-back to the imposing looking man across from him.
“Ilya Rozanov,” a voice from behind called, Shane turned to see a boy he recognized from his rink.
J.J. turned over his shoulder, “Okay, well then what is Ilya Rozanov doing here?” he asked, flinging his arms outwards “I know everyone but that one.” he said pointing at the boy.
Shane turned his attention back to Ilya Rozanov who had taken his helmet off now revealing a mane of messy curls. He was still arguing with the coach, but now he had pulled his hair out of his face with his gloved hand as if he were trying to show the man something on his forehead. The man bellowed an exasperated response, clutching at his head as if he were endlessly annoyed, and Shane realized that was some sort of slavic language.
“Sergei Vetrov,” Shane said suddenly, the name came out of his mouth the exact second it came to mind.
“What?” the boy who was now standing shoulder to shoulder with J.J. asked.
“That older guy, talking to the... rando.” Shane said, the slang word rolling off of his tongue unnaturally. “It’s Sergei Vetrov, Soviet goalie, played for the Guardians.” he said stiffly, as if his throat had closed a bit in response to trying to sound more normal. “
“Fuck Hollzy you know everyone” J.J. said with a snort. “Maybe the kids a goalie…” he mused, looking over at Shane as if waiting for him to approve the idea.
“Was he wearing any pads?” Hayden asked, materializing at Shane’s left.
J.J. wagged a finger, “clever man.” he said, breaking into a smile “fuck, where’d he go?” J.J. cursed as he turned back to the ice.
“Probably sent to the dog house, who the fuck talks to a coach like that?” Hayden chimed in.
“Or maybe he’s off to gloat, looks like he won the argument” J.J. said, jutting his chin forward where Vetrov was standing, dragging a frustrated hand over his face.
Shane’s face twisted “who's proud of pissing a coach off before you even hit the ice?” The distaste wasn’t even remotely fabricated.
Hayden laughed “Yeah, that’s your worst nightmare, eh?”
Shane swatted at him absently.
“You just don’t fight with a coach!” Shane protested, “You could probably get kicked out for that.”
J.J. narrowed his eyes “Well he doesn’t sound Canadian so he probably shouldn’t even be here”
“He’s Russian” the guy at J.J. 's side–Lemaire Shane remembered–piped up again. “Apparently his daddy got him in,” he hummed “no way in hell he keeps up.”
Shane frowned, he glanced over to the boards again, but Rozanov was still out of sight, Shane found his eyes flickering all over the rink searching for his crown of curls.
“We will see, no?” a playful but heavily accented voice cut through the brief moment of quiet.
Shane’s stomach dropped, hard, fast, fuck. That was mean wasn’t it? To be talking about this guy behind his back. Shane kept his eyes glued forward, he didn’t want any part of this.
Nobody answered him. Shane’s thumb started tapping against the gloves he was holding loosely in his hand.
“What is th-” his words gave way to something harsh, and unintelligible which he muttered under his breath, “how do they,” Ilya waved his hand around at the ice, he cleared his throat, “uh, choose.” he said.
The lack of response was loud this time, and if Shane felt like he was even marginally more socially adept than this guy who was struggling to string three-word sentences, he would’ve said something. Instead he buried the compulsion, and kept his back turned towards the low voice.
Hayden, ever the mediator, spoke. “Well, today's all about evaluation, and then the coaches watch and reshuffle based on how you play.”
Rozanov nodded, “who is best player?”
“Hollander” J.J. and Hayden said simultaneously, both glancing over at him.
“Hollander” Ilya said amused, testing the name in his mouth. “Are you sad?” he asked, turning to face Shane, who was set on only letting him see the back of his head.
Something In Rozanov’s voice made his stomach churn and his muscles tense. He’d never felt like that before, and he was scared that he would… lose his shit or something, if he turned around.
“Why would I be?” Shane asked, his eyes tracking a player who was testing an unsteady ankle out on the ice, the medical staff hovering around him.
“Is your last day being… best” the boy replied, giving Shane a faux comforting pat on his shoulder.
“Pardon me?” Shane said startled, swinging around because he had to look at whoever the fuck had decided to chirp Shane Hollander off-ice at his home rink.
But it was too late, Rozanov had thrown himself over the boards, and was skating back towards Vetrov who looked incredibly unimpressed, tossing his hands up in the air as the boy appeared before him.
“What an asshole.” Hayden muttered, kicking his ankles together.
Shane did well as play started up. He was laser-focused, his edges felt perfect, and he had Hayd to his left, which made things easy because he already knew how he played. They were doing rolling line changes, which felt a bit amateur, but Shane would never admit that aloud. He wasn’t going to jeopardise his position as his coach's favourite.
Shane skated up for his first puck-drop against the new kid. The boys on his side of the ice were disorganized, nobody sticking to where they were supposed to be. Rozanov was good, he’d watched from the bench as the boy outskated most of the players (and he wondered if Vincent Lemaire felt embarrassed). He chewed on the inside of his cheek, this time he’d be on the ice with Rozanov. A surge of unfamiliar threatened competitiveness ran through him, Shane didn’t have an ego anywhere except for on the rink, and he refused to have it bruised.
“Line up, let’s go.” The ref commanded, gliding into the circle.
Shane fumbled with his stick as he took position, cursing as he tried to correct his grip only to fumble it again.
“I make you nervous?” a voice taunted.
Shane’s head snapped up, finally getting a look at Ilya Rozanov. His hazel eyes bright and curious, a red cut dragged from his hairline through his eyebrow, splitting the hairs a little. His eyes narrowed as a little smile split over his lips, his tongue darted out, wetting his lips as his gaze drifted up and down Shane’s face.
“No.” Shane replied sharply “fuck off.” he added, unlike himself.
“Sticks down.” The ref cut in, his voice authoritative and commanding in a way Shane wasn’t used to hearing directed towards him.
Rozanov was staring at him now. Some intense overcame his expression, but he wasn’t making eye contact, he was looking at Shane’s cheeks maybe, or a spot on his nose. Shane felt his skin heat up at the scrutiny.
“What?” he snapped.
Fuck. He needed to focus.
“Sticks down,” The ref repeated more forcefully, the annoyance clear.
Shane batted his gloved-hand at his cheekbone where Rozanov’s eyes were burning holes into his skin “Do I have something on my face?” Shane blurted out.
“Enough, both off you-” the ref admonished.
“We’ve got a gear issue-” one of the coaches shouted, calling the referee over.
The ref hesitated with a tense sigh, glancing back and forth between the two boys, he stuck his finger out “Stay put, don’t start anything-” he warned, before skating away.
Ilya hummed, cocking his head to the side with a smirk, “You do have thing on face” he affirmed. He brought a gloved hand up and moved it in a circle over his own face “is look of… second best” he said his smile audible.
Shane felt a noise of disbelief escape him, he shook his head, don’t escalate, keep your head in the game, focus on what matters. He didn’t need to rise to the bait.
Shane had been glancing around the rink so he didn’t have to look at Rozanov, when he saw his mom walking up in the empty stands. She was walking towards the PT’s office, probably with a list of questions about the new mobility regimen.
Shane had time, the ref was gone, so he brought his hand up to wave catching her eye for just a second.
Ilya’s head snapped over his shoulder, and a judgemental laugh escaped him.
“Is this your mother?” he said, turning back around, it sounded like an insult.
“Yeah” Shane replied “she is.” adjusting his gloves to keep himself from looking into Rozanov’s fiery eyes.
“Do you need your mama to fix glove?” he taunted.
The ref was wrapping up at the players bench, slowly turning around, whistle in hand.
“Or… good luck kiss maybe?” Rozanov pressed on, feigning a pout. He got into position as the ref came closer “maybe she will tie your skates up too?” he jeered, looking down at Shane’s feet.
Shane batted at Rozanov’s stick with his own, wanting to slam his head into the ice because he had actually glanced down to make sure his laces were tight enough.
“Maybe she will play game for you? Is better, probably”
“Stop,” Shane hissed, “My moms great, sorry if yours sucks,” he pressed, annoyed that his focus was being interrupted.
Rozanov’s stick clattered to the ice immediately, his gloves were off in seconds.
“Hey! No—no, no—!” The ref shouted, skating hard toward them “Stop right now!” he cried.
Shane wasn’t fully aware of what was transgressing until Rozanov had one hand tugging at his jersey and a fist clashing into his face.
Shane had never been punched on the ice before, hell he’d never been punched at all before.
Shane staggered, grabbing for balance, adrenaline crashing in late and messy. He barely got his gloves off before another fist came in.
“Break it up! Break it up!” the ref shouted, reaching for the boys but Rozanov out maneuvered him, agile on his blades.
Rozanov was cussing in loud aggressive Russian, and his expression was almost feral.
Vetrov, in adidas slides, walked up behind Rozanov on the ice just as Shane finally shoved back, more instinct than intent. Vetrov caught the boy, and yanked his helmet off revealing a crown of gold curls.
Shane watched dumbly, what the hell was happening. Vetrov shouldn’t even be here. Not only the ice, but also the rink more generally. Goalie training worked differently entirely, and grabbing a student like that was unprecedented.
The shock intensified as Vetrov smacked the boy hard at the back of the head, the smack resonating in time with an outraged cry of one of the Canadian coaches. The referee was not moving fast enough.
“Do something!” Shane stammered out gesturing vaguely in their direction as the referee’s eyes widened in exhausted horror.
The referee pushed forwards, but Vetrov had let go of Ilya and had his arms up in impertinent surrender, it was clear from his facial expression that he was finding entertainment in the whole ordeal.
Rozanov craned his head backwards, his chest still heaving, helmet tucked beneath his arm, frustration clear in his flushed cheeks. Then he placed the helmet loosely on his head, and folded his arms across his chest looking nothing more than mildly annoyed. He took a deep breath, looking calm for a second, before the calm broke and he went off in a long Russian tangent gesturing violently at Shane with a desperation in his eyes as he spoke to the coach. Vetrov looked unimpressed, and walked away with a half-hearted apology to the ref as Ilya yelled after him.
Even through the language barrier Shane could pick up on the petulance, the only thing that silenced Ilya’s tangent was Vetrov nearly wiping out on the ice, his poor footwear choice catching up to him as he slid across the ice like a baby deer. .
Ilya let out a mean-sounding cackle, and turned to face Shane with an exhilarated grin, he used his thumb to point over to where Vetrov had just slipped. As he took in Shane’s unamused expression, he rolled his eyes and made a bored noisel.
“Rozanov, Hollander-” the ref said skating between them “you’re both done.”
Shane felt his jaw go slack, fuck, this was bad.
“Off,” the ref said, pointing sharply toward the penalty box. “Five each. Go. I don’t care how these things usually work, you both need to get off my ice right now.”
“What?” Shane let out, breathless.
“Now,” the ref snapped. “Or you’re done for the rest of the day.”
Rozanov gave a short, breathy laugh.
“Oopsie” he said, skating backwards past Shane.
“Wrong way” Shane hissed, but it came out sort of half formed and he was skating awkwardly since he could practically feel Rozanov buzzing beside him.
“Ah,” he said easily “I think I show you, yes?” Rozanov’s face split into something puckish “Maybe pretty boy has never gone before” he shrugged. “Is there” he said, pointing his stick at the penalty box.
Shane opened his mouth, but was too fucking furious to say anything, his heart roaring in his ears, blood rushing to his face.
Before he could get even one word in the sharp noise of blades stopping swiftly cut through his train of thought.
Shane almost didn’t catch Ilya skating away, but time froze, and it felt like everybody was staring when Ilya looked over his shoulder for a second and had the gull to wink at Shane, he looked smug and Shane wanted to grab him.
Fuck, he hoped his mom hadn’t seen any of that altercation.
Inside the box, Shane pressed his tongue carefully against the inside of his cheek. It was already swelling. His hand came up against where Ilya’s fist had collided against skin. He hissed at the contact.
Across from him, Rozanov leaned back against the glass, a careless ease to him that had Shane wondering why the fuck anyone agreed to let him come to the program. He clearly did not care about hockey, no matter how frustratingly good he was at it.
By the end of the day, Shane had played fine over all. Sure he was a bit off kilter, and he was embarrassed, but he was still out performing himself at this time last year, and that was what mattered the most.
It was sort of hard to play his best because any time Rozanov was on the ice he was crowding Shane's space. Slamming him into the boards with amused laughs escaping him at the contact. He was skating in the way of Shane’s team's post-goal celebrations. He would block Shane’s path and would tap at his wrist like he had a watch there. Each time this happened he’d fucking win the face off and slam the puck into the back of the net like he already knew it would happen. He cut Shane off when it wasn’t useful to the play at all, and he fluttered in Shane’s personal space in an infuriating way.
So sure, he’d played fine but he is warm and bothered still, even while he is sitting on a plastic chair in Coach Leary’s over-air-conditioned office with his head hung.
The man is in front of him pacing around the small cool room.
“Shane man, what was that?” he asked, hands clasped in front of him, clipboard under his arm. “That’s not who you are on the ice.” he added, tapping his knuckles against his thigh, “your mom is going to be upset with me over that shiner, bud” he said, gesturing to his cheek and then running a hand through his hair.
Coach Leary had been coaching dev-camps for different age-groups as Shane aged through hockey. He was practically a family friend at this point, and had made it into Yuna’s good books (despite playing for the Toronto Guardians).
“I know,” Shane grumbled, flexing his hands “It’s not… crazy to… tussle though, right?” he added, testing the idea out as he said it.
“You’re headed into juniors, fighting is a part of the sport, yeah.” Leary nodded, still pacing “but you were off your game for the rest of the day. You're lucky we know you well enough that we’re not just considering your performance today” he said, making very serious eye-contact with Shane.
Shane nodded, but he knew it was kind of bullshit, he was still out-performing most of the other kids, him and Rozanov neck in neck on every metric.
“It’s just- he doesn’t focus!” Shane exclaimed desperately.
Leary huffed, bringing his clipboard down, “you can’t let that shake up your play, okay?”
Shane nodded frustrated with himself, when the door clicked open.
Shane turned over his shoulder and felt fury swell into his chest as Rozanov was pushed through the door. Vetrov’s hands on his shoulders.
Rozanov’s curls were damp, and Shane could smell his woody shampoo or something from across the room. He was in striped track pants and some sort of teal graphic-tee with cyrilic words across it.
“Ah, Shane Hollander is here too.” Vetrov said, sounding pleased, he said something in Russian lifting his hands off of Ilya’s shoulders just to clasp them back down. “Ilya has something to say,” he said pushing Ilya forwards, the blonde stumbled all the way into the office. Vetrov didn’t have an accent at all when he spoke English, Shane noted.
Ilya shifted on his feet, glancing around the office as if looking for an alternative exit. Vetrov was huge in every direction, and though Ilya was agile there was no way in hell he would be able to dart under Sergei’s arm and out of the room.
Ilya looked flighty for a few more seconds, and then he settled somewhere between annoyed and resigned.
“I am sorry.” he said in over enunciated English “For-” he turned over his shoulder at Vetrov who nodded at him.
Ilya brought his shoulders up in a shrug, shooting the coach a confused look. He waved his hand forwards as if maybe it could make the words appear.
Vetrov prompted him, he mouthed “hitting” in an exaggerated whisper and embellished it with an unnecessary gestured interpretation of the scene.
Ilya exhaled with a lip trill. “I am sorry, for… hitting you.” he said his accent stuttering of the H sound, “... this was not” he made another expression that was a cross between something annoyed and something lost. He muttered something in Russian to Vetrov.
He raised his hands in a shrug, shaking his head at Ilya.
“I do not know any Russian, Ilya,” Vetrov chided.
Ilya was fuming now as he turned back around, cursing under his breath.
“English” Vetrov berated.
Ilya was surprisingly well-versed in English curse words as he let out a string of them into the air instead, a coy smile tugging at his lips.
“Ilya” Vetrov snapped.
“I was translating!” he protested, then fell silent for a moment “Yes, yes. Okay. I am very sorry for… hitting Hollander. Was not good impre-, im-”
“Impression?” Shane offered.
Ilya glowered at him, bringing a hand to his forehead. “Yes, this, was not good impression. I like you, I will not do again.” Ilya paused.
“Probably,” he added with a lazy smile.
Shane blinked at him.
“Thank you?” he forced out “I’m uh, I’m sorry too.” Shane offered with no prompting, but it sounded more like a question than anything else.
The apology felt like nothing more than shaking hands and saying good game.
Leary nodded approvingly at Shane anyways.
“This is the last time I will do this for you, Vetrov,” Leary then said, pointing at Ilya.
Shane squirmed in his seat, he thought he would die on the spot if someone talked about him like that, but either Ilya didn’t understand what had been said, or really didn’t care.
Vetrov sighed like he’d heard it before “Yes, I figured. He is always the last favour.”
He pulled Ilya to his side by the back of his shirt, Ilya snarled, trying to shrug him off upon contact.
“This one.” Vetrov said, shaking his head “He does not listen to coaches. Or his father,” he said pointedly.
Ilya made a sharp sound in Russian, the only word Shane caught was Papa, which was quite obviously father.
“That is why he is in Canada, maybe his ears will work better here.” Vetrov said solemnly, ignoring whatever Ilya was trying to voice.
Leary furrowed his brow, and exchanged a quick look at Shane as if he was expecting the boy to be less bewildered than himself.
“Yours is very well behaved,” Vetrov added, nodding at Shane.
“Uh-” Shane heard it escape him as his back straightened.
Leary nodded, “Yeah, good kid” he hummed as if he didn’t see anything weird about Shane being deemed as ‘his’.
“He would be good for Ilya. He could take him under his wing”
Ilya’s head snapped up, “No” he protested “I don’t need this-”
Vetrov smacked him lightly on the back of the head without looking.
Ilya let out a frustrated breath.
“For his discipline.” Vetrov nodded “Ilya has no friends here in Montreal,” he continued playfully, “so, Hollander and Rozanov, together.” he offered clapping his hands to emphasize together.
Ilya was glaring fiercely up at the man, his jaw hinging open and then forcefully clamping shut again.
“Together for what?” Leary asked, leaning forward, more interested in Vetrov’s preposition than Shane would have appreciated.
“Conditioning maybe.” Vetrov shrugged.
Shane spluttered “I was gonna do it with Hayden and J.J.” it was maybe his first time interrupting a conversation between two coaches.
“Maybe two pairs of two would be better…” Leary hummed thoughtfully.
“Are you serious?” Shane gaped.
“Yes, these two can be a pair.” Vetrov said gesturing between the boys “Hollander has a lot he can teach you” Vetrov said definitively, shaking Ilya back and forth by the shoulders “Structure, maybe”
Ilya started protesting in Russian, and was quickly silenced by Vetrov’s hand.
“Maybe English since you refuse to even try,”
Ilya folded his arms with an exasperated exhale.
“It’s not fully settled, Sergei.” Leary said, “Shane and I will talk.” he affirmed.
Shane’s body sagged, now he had to dread telling J.J. and Hayden that their entire summer was being infected by the parasite of Ilya Rozanov.
“Rozanov,” Leary turned his attention to the boy “you played well today, I look forward to coaching you.”
“Nobody coaches Rozanov.” Vetrov said in a defeatist tone, he turned his attention to the boy in question “He is very full of himself. Arrogant.”
Rozanov stared at him a mischievous smile blooming on his lips “Sorry, what was that? I have no English” he said, shaking his head in feign apology.
“Thank you Leary–last favour, swear it" Vetrov said with a hearty laugh, throwing his hand in front of the space Ilya occupied, he then turned out of the office “good luck with him”.
Ilya froze for a moment, glancing between the door, Shane, and Coach Leary.
“I- can I go?” he asked.
Leary nodded.
Ilya turned to leave, paused, and then turned back.
“You should wear less outfit” he commented, staring into Shane’s eyes, he shook his shirt a bit as if that offered any clarity. “Your face goes red,” he said.
“What?” Shane said, cursing himself as his face flushed.
“Too hot, maybe?” he mimed, fanning himself “or you are… coquette?” he offered, his eyes brushed over Shane’s reddening skin, he looked delighted as Shane shifted in his seat “I make you…” he tapped his cheek and then his ears, “is funny” he added.
Shane opened his mouth to say something, but Ilya gave him a melodramatic wave and disappeared behind the door leaving him stammering.
“That’s what I mean,” Leary said, exhaling through his nose.
Shane didn’t answer immediately, his skin was tingling from being looked at so hard.
Leary watched him for a moment, and then nodded to himself “you’re not used to that”.
“To what?” Shane said frantically, his head jerking up, he felt weirdly caught out.
“You’re not used to people getting under your skin, provoking you, giving you a run for your money. On or off ice.” he shrugged “But Shane, you’re headed to juniors. And we both know if you keep it up, the MLH”
Shane swallowed, nodding.
Leary continued, quieter but firmer, “Guys like that? Talented, loud, annoying? They’re more common than guys like you.”
Shane leaned back in his chair, feeling the front two legs pop off the ground.
“You can’t afford to react like this. It’s how they get their edge.” he said, “I think Vetrov is onto something. I want him to join your conditioning group.”
“No- what? J.J. Hayden and I have done this for years-” Shane protested.
“So maybe it’s time for a change,” Leary stated.
“This is ridiculous,” Shane said standing up, he was basically begging at this point.
“So was your display with Rozanov today.” Leary countered sternly “work through it, If he is your biggest challenge consider yourself lucky. Hockey isn’t this easy for the rest of us.”
Shane tried not to think about Rozanov as he showered, but he was infuriating, and Shane couldn’t objectively remember any of his play today, just images of Rozanov’s cocky grin, and the way his heavy breathing felt against Shane’s ear when he was eating-board for the seventh play in a row. By the time he was waiting to walk home with J.J. and Hayden he’d given up on banishing thoughts of Rozanov.
“I can’t believe you dropped gloves on our first day,” Hayden snorted, leaning against the wall of the rink. Hayden and Shane stood outside waiting for J.J. to come out of the locker room. He always spent too long shuffling things around in his cubby and chatting with the other players. J.J. had always been a bit more concerned about getting the guys to like him, he was preoccupied with his reputation.
“I didn’t drop my gloves” Shane muttered bringing a hand to his forehead, “Fuck. My mom is going to have so many questions.” he said with a tired laugh.
“Show me again,” Hayden said, tugging loosely at Shane’s shoulder.
Shane turned so his bruising cheek was on display, still shimmering red in the afternoon light.
“It’s not horrible,” Hayden shrugged, leaning in close to inspect it.
The door slammed open, and J.J. yelped with a laugh.
“I thought you guys were making out for a second,” he snickered.
Hayden took a quick step back “Ew- no” he said his face contorted in a playfully insulted kind of way.
Shane frowned.
“I was looking at his bruise,” Hayden added explanatorily.
J.J. nodded “Yeah, got that. Not like you Hollzy, starting shit on the first day of dev” he added coyly.
Shane groaned, “I did not start that”
J.J.’s face broke into a smile “Yeah well you sure finished it… by getting your shit rocked.”
Hayden smacked at J.J.’s arm, “hey be nice!” he admonished “It’s a big first for Shane,” he said in a drawn out teasing way.
“I’ve been to the penalty box before!” Shane said. He stopped walking for his declaration, as if he couldn’t be frustrated and moving simultaneously.
Hayden cackled “Yeah, no shit” he said like it was an incredulous thought.
Shane felt annoyance flicker in him, why had Rozanov chirping him sound so real.
“Most holy thing in the sin bin” J.J. ribbed, ruffling Shane’s hair aggressively with his hand.
“Do you think Rozanov has more minutes of play or minutes in the box?” Hayden asked.
J.J. let out a sound of distaste. “He wasn’t even invited and he walks in like he owns the place.”
“Skates like it too,” Hayden said, his lip curling. “If you were to take pictures of the game, you wouldn’t even know what position he plays, he takes up so much space.”
“It’s a shit strategy, won’t take him far.” J.J. nodded, kicking his foot absently at the curb.
“He’s pretty good,” Shane said honestly, he was the first person who’d ever pulled up something aggressive and territorial out of Shane. He’d never felt like he had something to prove before.
J.J. 's jaw hung slack “Shane no!” he cried, “that is the enemy. He is crazy!”
Shane let out an easy laugh, “I guess,” he shrugged “But I don’t know, there's worse people to play against”
“Like who?” Hayden said running a frustrated hand through his hair, “I bet he bites,”
“Bites?” Shane echoed, his heart racing as unwanted images of Ilya sinking his teeth into his shoulder filled his mind.
Hayden nodded with a grave look on his face, “Like this-” he leapt forward grabbing J.J. by the arms making ferocious biting sounds as he shook him around.
J.J. smacked him away with a startled cry, “that would be a terrifying last sight, his freaky blue eyes like-” J.J. leaned in up close to Shane’s face, wide eyed.
Shane pushed him off hurriedly.
“You’re so weird. And also, his eyes are hazel,” he said offhandedly.
J.J. and Hayden stilled a bit. Exchanging a glance as if Shane wasn’t right between them.
“Okay-” J.J. said, clearing his throat.
Shane felt jittery, “it’s just they’re not blue.” he muttered mostly to himself, kicking a rock forwards.
“Well, blue or green they make him look psycho” J.J. affirmed.
Hayden nodded, “he’s got a crazed look to him” he said nodding.
“He’s not in it enough to be here.” J.J. agreed, tapping his head with his pointer-finger.
Shane felt something twist in him, “I don’t know, he’s pretty… focused.” he shrugged.
“Yeah, focused on killing you, he was dying to get you up against the boards” Hayden laughed, giving Shane a playful shove. “Look I get that you got in shit with Leary but you don’t need to be all perfect outside the rink”
“You could be less perfect at the rink too” J.J. said a little resentfully, “Leary would let you do anything.” he said with a wistful edge to his tone.
Shane scrunched his face up. He got why they thought that. But it was frustrating because Shane didn’t do anything. He didn’t mess up like today.
“Yeah, fuck I’m glad I wasn’t actually benched,” he huffed. “But Rozanov started it,” he added importantly. His friends were the only people he’d actually let himself be stubborn and childish with.
Hayden nodded “no shit.”
Shane felt that weird feeling spring into him again, that frustrated, anxious, bubbling. When he’d said Rozanov, it tasted weird. Now he could feel the heat creeping up his neck, kissing the tips of his ears.
Rozanov was infuriating. His hands were trembling just thinking about him.
He kicked a piece of gravel ahead of them as they walked, deep in contemplation.
The words were out of his mouth at the first pause in conversation, before he even knew what he was saying.
“Do I get really… red ever?” he asked feeling an humiliated lurch in his stomach the moment it was out of his mouth.
J.J. frowned, his head jerking backwards as he blinked slightly dumbfounded. “Like, from hockey?”
Shane huffed, “I guess? Just does my face get… weirdly red?”
Hayden looked taken aback, he leaned forward, grabbing Shane’s chin and twisting his face around. “You look kind of black and blue right now to be honest.” he teased.
Shane exhaled “I don’t know, I just… do I look weird?”
“Yeah you have weirdly clear skin,” J.J. commented, “Lou–from last summer, she was always saying that”
“Jackie says that too-” Hayden agreed “what does that even mean?” he said furrowing his brow, “yeah, maybe you look more red because you have clear skin” Hayden said nodding to himself.
“The girls are all jealous,” J.J. teased tapping Shane’s chin. “Actually, the bruise might help your pull game,” he added.
Before Shane could try and clarify that he wasn’t really asking about the clearness of his skin. The conversation had turned.
“Speaking of love… are you and Jackie together yet?” J.J. said in a poor attempt at casual.
Hayden frowned “No!” he exclaimed, “we’re just friends.” he insisted.
This time Shane got to exchange a suspicious glance with J.J. It always felt nice when he was on the side of a conversation that knew things.
The conversation dragged on. Hayden only lived in Montreal during the summers, and J.J. and Shane went to different schools, so their first weeks after school ended were always full of catching up. Shane privately thought most of the things Hayden and J.J. seemed to get excited about were incredibly boring.
They talked a lot about what clubs were lax on fake ID’s, what boys at dev camp were seeing girls they knew, and some party Jackie was planning.
Shane tried to hum, nod, and laugh at the right moments.
His bruise was hot now, making his heart pulse right beneath his eye. It was a strange place to punch, decorating his cheek bone. The bruise lay closer to his ear than his eye or his jaw, but Shane supposed it made sense; Rozanov had flung himself forwards with a ferocity that undermined any precision.
Shane, having temporarily forgotten that he’d lost his piece of gravel ages ago, swung his foot forward kicking at nothing, he stumbled over himself.
“--are you even listening?” J.J.’s voice cut through, tugging Shane back upwards by the shoulders.
“Yeah, yeah I am… um Jackie’s party?” he offered lamely.
Hayden groaned, he tossed his hands up in a shrug shaking his head at J.J. in embellished exasperation.
“What the fuck do we do with him?”
J.J. frowned overdramatically, “If I knew…”
“My face fucking hurts.” Shane offered, as if that was the reason for his disinterest in their conversation.
“Yeah man, have you even iced it yet?” Hayden asked, he looked like the reminder sobered him up.
Shane shook his head, his hair brushing against his forehead.
“You know you got sent to the box for that, you don’t need to punish yourself further.” J.J. laughed “I’m sure your mom will have it fixed in no time” he added reassuringly.
Shane nodded, “Yeah,”
“Five in the box is pretty lax,” Hayden added “for Rozanov” he corrected.
Shane stopped walking abruptly, forcing Hayden and J.J. to turn and regard him. They were approaching the corner at which they all turned in different directions, if he was going to say something he had to say it now.
“I think Leary wants me to do conditioning with him, like as… retribution” he said, looking at the space between J.J. and Hayden so he didn’t have to watch himself disappoint them in real time.
“What?” Hayden cried, “tell him no!” he protested.
J.J. looked a little more horrified, he was deep in thought prompting a rare moment of resounding silence.
“Great, so you’ll have Rozanov riding you all summer”
“What?” Shane said, his voice coming out a little compressed.
Heat started creeping up the back of his neck. Shane needed this to not happen right now, his thumb began drumming against his index finger.
“What is Leary thinking?” J.J. said shaking his head “That guy was practically grabbing at your jersey all day, he fucking beat you up man!-”
“Beat up is a little dramatic-” Shane interjected, “he got one punch in-”
“And how many did you get?” Hayden teased under his breath.
“Fuck off! You guys are supposed to be my friends” Shane complained.
“And you’re supposed to be our conditioning partner!” Hayden responded, annoyance clear in his voice.
“Well I didn’t say yes,” Shane responded.
“Good, good, I’m sure Leary will forget about it.” Hayden nodded, clapping Shane on the shoulder.
They shared quick goodbye’s as Hayden turned left towards Jackie’s, and J.J. turned right towards the metro station.
Shane felt an unease churning within him.
Maybe Leary would forget about it, but Vetrov certainly wouldn’t.
The evening was cooling, the air still a bit sticky, now clinging to his burning bruise.
His mom would have thoughts about it.
He stared at the concrete as he walked.
So what if he was off his game for one day. That was fine. He was just not expecting it. Shane didn’t do well when plans got changed, and Rozanov was certainly unexpected.
His chest felt tight. He had to do perfectly tomorrow. On all frontiers.
Fuck.
Shane had just been startled, now that he knew what to expect he could make a plan.
He’d focus on agility, instead of his clean lines of play he’d have to make them confusing so Rozanov couldn’t just cut him off and body check him.
One touch passes, quick release, Hayd on his left, it would leave Rozanov no time to close the gap.
He’d have to disengage completely, no chirping, no rising to the bait.
If Rozanov said something about his skill he would out perform him.
If Rozanov said something about Shane’s mom he’d bite his tongue.
If Rozanov said something about his face going red, he would look away.
If Rozanov said ‘do I make you nervous?’
Fuck. Shane could practically hear his voice. Coquette. Hollander. Do I make you nervous?
Shane felt the heat crawling up at him.
‘No you don’t’ Shane thought forcefully.
He froze, right in front of their walk-up, startled by the sound of his voice.
He’d said that out loud.
“Fuck.” he muttered under his breath, but he wasn’t even sure why he was cursing.
It felt like impending doom, like that hazy feeling that precedes fainting.
He pushed himself forwards towards the house, and brushed his hand against his bruise, he exhaled sharply through his nose, and added something to his mental to-do list.
Don’t fucking let him make you nervous.
August, 2014
By August, the chatter about Ilya Rozanov had become background noise. The quickly approaching season came with lots of other things to discuss. Everyone had moved on to new trades, signings, and scandals. Shane had moved on too. He hardly thought about it at all. He’d replied to Hayden's text with fml and moved on.
In August the Montreal Voyageur’s received a new social media manager, she’d emailed everyone, but she seemed particularly interested in working with Shane–who had recently become captain.
Shane was spending the summer in Montreal anyways, so he agreed to meet up with her over coffee and a walk down at lachine canal. Marie-Christine wore glasses, and had a laziness to her that didn’t fit into the bubbly over-excited constitution Shane imagined social media managers were required to have.
She explained to Shane that he was the face of their team now, that he needed to bend to Montreal so they would love him. To get local engagement, she wanted Shane to be accessible, to be talked about, to lean into his star-factor. Shane nodded along like any of that meant anything to him.
Instagram was the fastest way to get Marie-Christine out of his inbox, and it was actually pretty enjoyable. He liked seeing the game updates from the NHL account, and he was able to see posts from players he’d fallen out of contact with.
He was scrolling through Hayden Pike's over-saturated feed, waiting for his coffee to brew, when a notification obscured the top of his phone.
@ilyarozanov81 started following you
His hand faltered, but he clicked on the notification without even really thinking about it.
The account wouldn’t load.
Maybe it was a sign that he should just close his phone, he doesn’t need to see what Rozanov was up to.
He wanted to slam his head against the wall, he couldn’t fucking tear himself away.
One post.
His hand slammed against it immediately. He recognized it from the tiny square on the profile page, he knew what it was, he could just put his fucking phone away.
He still didn’t tear his eyes away.
Shane swallowed hard.
Ilya as a teenager was grinning up at him through his phone. The photo was old, and it had a worn-out look to it that made it clear it was a picture of a picture.
Ilya was squinting a bit in the sun, propped up in front of a giant Canadian flag. His arms were folded over his chest. His gaze was settled on something above the camera lens, amusement tugging his lips open into that stupid crooked smile.
It’s captioned canada.
As if that fucking means anything. As if thats what that fucking photo was about.
canada
Shane zoomed in as if he would find something he didn’t already know was there.
He knew what would be there. You could spot his mom walking into the grocery store in the back right corner, just her hair and that purple sweater she wore almost every day that summer.
Ilya’s stupid teal shirt that he’d almost cried over when he’d lost it in the locker room. In his hand was that god-foresaken camcorder hanging lazily, as if it were innocent, as if Ilya were innocent.
Shane could remember how the air felt, the warm glow of the evening sun. The way his legs felt all wrong from sitting in the car too-long.
Shane remembered what was out of frame, he knew Ilya was being frustrating by wearing one of his own socks, and one of Shane’s.
He knew Ilya only had his arms folded because he’d tried to flip-off the camera and tucked it away in a panic when David materialized beside Shane, who was holding the camera.
He knew that photo. He took that photo. He fucking paid to get that roll of film developed.
Shane tugged at his shirt's neckline, his breathing felt wrong, like his lungs weren’t expanding far enough. Like the air quality was bad. Like he was sitting at four forty-five in the morning, in front of a burnt out campfire, with Ilya Rozanov asleep across his lap, like he was breathing in smoke so he wouldn’t wake the boy up.
Shane blinked hard. The kitchen light felt brighter all of a sudden.
He removed him as a follower.
He’d have to ask Marie-Christine if the public would be able to find out if he blocked someone.
Rozanov did not get to fucking follow Shane on instagram.
Fuck that guy. Shane thought.
Fuck him.
“Fuck” he muttered, slamming his phone down, it came out sort of broken.