Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov is not washed up.
He isn’t. He's a very respectable, very unancient 35.
Sure, his body isn’t what it used to be. He has a bum knee, a steady ache in his right shoulder, a twinge in his lower back from sleeping on shitty hotel mattresses for 2 months of the year. He can’t drink more than 2 glasses of vodka unless he wants to dedicate the better half of the next day to nursing a nasty hangover. Dubek’s 11-year-old son exclusively refers to him as unc. Whatever.
He’s still Ilya fucking Rozanov after all. He’s still an all-time leading scorer in the MLH (hell, he still would have been even if he retired 5 years ago). He went first in the draft and led the Bears to the cup in his second season. He was the alternate captain in his third year, clinched the C in his fourth, and hasn’t let it go since. He’s a franchise player. He’s the best. He’s Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya looks fondly on his time as a rookie. 17, going on 18, fresh out of Moscow and high on life. He remembers early morning practices and late nights at dingy, hole-in-the-wall bars, luxurious lounges, sketchy stripclubs - anywhere, really, that served alcohol and were willing to look the other way when a notably not 21-year-old Rozanov handed the bouncer a fake I.D. He remembers team lifts and video reviews. He remembers, sappily, how strange it felt to look at his teammates and think ‘friend’ before he thought ‘competitor.’
Some hockey players lament the passage of time. They mourn the loss of their youth, of a body that didn’t creak and ache with every pivot and shift, naive to the ways lost sleep, too much alcohol, and brushed-off PT sessions will catch up to you. Ilya is not one of these players.
He enjoyed his time as a rookie, yes. But he enjoyed his second, fifth, tenth year on the team just as much. And now, in his 17th season with the Boston Bears, Ilya thinks he will probably enjoy retirement, too. Sue him, he’s too old for some of this bullshit.
All that is to say - Ilya’s not some sad, washed-up vet that hates every rookie on account of bitter jealousy.
He does, however, hate Shane Hollander.
The story goes like this. Hollander goes first in the draft, to no one’s surprise. Even Ilya can admit that Hollander is impressive. The first time Ilya watched a clip of Hollander playing, he racked his brain to find an apt comparison. He came up blank. Hollander was something else entirely. He moved fast, weaving through d-men with some of the cleanest edges Ilya’s ever seen, but his brain seemed to move even faster. Hollander anticipated plays so expertly that Ilya couldn’t completely rule out some kind of weird, psychic ESP shit.
Coach LeClaire is practically buzzing on the first day of pre-season. They had a rough fucking season, shitty trades and unlucky injuries that led them, ultimately, to the indignity of securing the first draft pick. LeClaire doesn't seem to remember this, a moronic grin splitting his face in half. Ilya kind of respects it. Kind of.
“This is our year, boys.” He promises. Ilya nods once. Damn right.
“Hollander’s gonna take us there. I know he will.”
And ok. Pause. Hollander will take them there? Hollander alone?
As if Ilya wasn’t instru-fucking-mental in getting them three cups? Ilya catches the tip of his tongue between his front teeth, bites down until he tastes blood.
LeClaire continues to ramble. Hollander is 18. Hollander is a center. Hollander has the highest hockey IQ he's ever seen in a rookie. Hollander led his junior league in scoring- big fucking whoop, Ilya thinks, so did he. And also, Coach adds, casual as ever, Hollander is a little.
The locker room, once filled with the low, ambient chatter of 20 grown men invigorated with the potential of another cup, goes stock-still. Coach continues, talking quicker now, as if Hollander’s - admittedly impressive - performance at World Juniors can eclipse the fucking bombshell he just dropped on them.
“Sorry?” Ilya interjects, because it doesn’t seem like anyone else will. Pussies.
“Sorry?” LecCaire repeats, feigning confusion.
“Yes, fucking sorry. A little?”
The seal bursts then. The careful silence of the locker room breaks, gives way to a barrage of questions.
Namely: Is that … allowed?
Which is fair, and something Ilya himself is wondering about. Ilya doesn’t know many littles, doesn’t know any really. He thinks, maybe, one of the vets in his rookie year had one. But 18-year old Ilya didn’t care about that then, never asked. Probably wouldn’t ask now, if he’s being honest.
Ilya’s not a caregiver, nor a little. None of his current teammates are. Most people aren’t, statistically, so Ilya guesses that makes sense. Ilya knows… some stuff… about littles. They regress, obviously. Some more than others, some all the time. They’re usually on the smaller side, lower muscle tone, more prone to injury.
Ilya snorts at the thought, glancing down at the mottle of yellow-purple-green bruising that covers his bare chest. Great career choice for a baby, fuck.
Coach LeClaire sighs, and Ilya looks up.
“Yes, it’s allowed. Always has been. None of ‘em have ever made it to pro, because of the, y’know,” Leclaire winces, minutely, “-biological disadvantages.”
A low hum of amusement rolls over the room at that, at the polished, HR language, no doubt agonized over in conference rooms for hours in preparation for the slew of questions the Bears will have to deal with.
Ilya is similarly amused. For a moment. And then that moment is over, and the amusement is replaced with something colder and sharper.
This could very well be Ilya’s last year. He wants it to be, honestly. He’s not kidding about being too old for this shit. He wants to travel. He wants to eat like shit and drink too much and not care about dieticians and supplements and progressive overload. He wants to feel wholly unsore, for once. The Bears would probably let him play until he’s geriatric, old and decrepit and senile. Hell, look at Scott Hunter. But over the off-season, Ilya has become increasingly more sure that this is his last season. And the end of his career in the MLH will end just as it began - with a bang.
Ilya will lead the Bears to their fourth cup. He will play like a machine. He will play so disgustingly perfect that his retirement will feel inevitable - the climax of a world-class career.
That was the plan, at least.
But now, what? Now, even if they secure another cup, it will be attributed to Hollander? Ilya wants to laugh. He does. It comes out cold and flat.
LeClaire narrows his eyes, just a little.
“Got something to say, Roz?” It feels goading. Ilya bites.
“So this is, what, a daycare now? We let little babies on team now?”
“Look, Roz, I know it’s unprecedented but-”
“Unprecedented!” Ilya repeats, almost gleeful, “Yes, is very unprecedented. I wonder, who will change Hollander’s diapers? Job for alternate, no?”
He raises his eyebrows at Marleau, who grimaces exaggeratedly,
“Ew, dude, no.”
LeClaire rolls his eyes. He clears his throat in an attempt to silence the snickers that accompanied Marleau’s dramatics and pauses for a second. When the noise doesn’t subside, he speaks a little louder than before.
“I’d appreciate a bit of maturity here boys.” He doesn’t sound angry, Ilya thinks. A bit resigned, maybe. “He’s not in diapers.”
“Oh, is good then. Don’t need to potty train, very good. Maybe we can keep some pull-ups in his locker, just in case. Can be hard, y’know, for babies to take off all the gear.”
Ilya knows he’s being an asshole, obviously. But…
A little - a baby - playing hockey is not only objectively ridiculous, but also entirely unheard of, as LeClaire said. Ilya doesn’t know much about littles (and again: doesn’t care), but he knows that the league, fans and players alike, are gonna go batshit when they hear about it. It’s gonna be the talk of the fucking town. Even if he sucks. Which he will, surely. Being a little might have worked out fine for Hollander in Juniors, but the MLH is a different beast entirely - mentally and physically. Ilya’s seen the toll it takes on young players, has felt it intimately. The pressure, the newness, the imposing, crushing weight of potential.
Hollander is going to fail. Ilya is sure of it. Whether he burns out by the first round of playoffs, or hangs on for a couple of lacklustre seasons, he won’t last long. He won’t be a franchise player or a hall-of-famer. He won’t be Ilya Rozanov.
But that doesn’t matter, really, does it? Hollander could be the world’s most boring, mediocre player in the entirety of MLH, and he’ll still have more press coverage than all the other Bears combined. Because he’s a fucking little.
Ilya has played for the Bears for 16 seasons. And now, his last season will not be remembered for what it should be - a farewell to the best thing that’s ever happened to Boston. It will be remembered as the season they drafted a fucking little to their team.
So yeah - Ilya’s being a bit of an asshole. He’s allowed to be.
LeClaire doesn’t deign Rozanov’s snarky comment with a response. He also doesn’t reprimand him. Instead, he launches into an unnecessarily detailed explanation of this season’s tentative schedule - exhibition games and dryland training and other bullshit that Ilya’s heard 16 times and doesn’t care to hear again. He settles on the bench in front of his locker, leans back until his head hits the metal behind him with an audible thud. Closes his eyes and thinks. No. Seethes.
Ilya is so occupied with his seething that he almost misses the sharp rap of knuckles on the propped-open door of the locker room. LeClaire doesn’t. He pivots towards the sound abruptly, another stupid, anticipatory grin on his face. The full magnitude of his excitement from earlier returns, having been steadily waning as he droned on about mandatory pressers and social media managers. Ilya allows himself one last moment to ruminate in his anger before he lets his head loll lazily towards the door.
Rookies, in Ilya’s head, are a lot like puppies. Excitable. Vying for approval and acceptance with a palpable desperation. Eager to please and a little annoying. They usually bound into the locker room with a frankly excessive amount of energy, bouncy and smiling and too high on the realization of their dreams to act nonchalant about it. They usually speak a little too fast and a little too loudly. They even have a handler, just like a puppy: Wendy, the Boston Bear’s HR Director, whose responsibilities include ensuring that the rookie completes their mountain of paperwork and doesn’t get lost on the journey from the front doors of the arena to the locker room.
Shane Hollander is like a puppy too. But in a different way than most rookies.
He’s excited, definitely. Nervous too. Ilya can tell by the way his eyes are darting around the locker room, by the subtle rocking of his entire body, Hollander’s weight shifting from the balls of his feet to his heels. Back and forth and back and forth. He has ridiculous eyes - big and brown and glassy. Ilya watches them scan the room once, then twice, before landing squarely back on Wendy. Waiting to be told what to do.
Most rookies don’t even glance at Wendy. They write her off, Ilya assumes. She’snot a coach, not a teammate. Not a man either, which matters to the particularly annoying rookies. Most years, Wendy isn’t even graced with a thank you. Past the point of expecting one, she’ll typically take her leave as soon as the rookie approaches the threshold of the locker room. Job completed. She’ll maybe share a few quiet words with LeClaire or a vet player that missed a signature on some bullshit form. If the rookie is particularly polite, she sometimes wishes the team a good season, but she never sticks around longer than that. Ilya likes her a lot more than most of the management team. No buddy-buddy, family bullshit. Ilya has considered asking her if she has some Russian in her, but she doesn't really seem one to entertain small talk.
Shane Hollander is like a puppy, but he’s like… one of those starved, mangled mutts from the dog shelter commercials that always make you feel a little guilty. He’s staring at Wendy with those stupid-big eyes and Wendy is smiling at him kindly. Ilya can’t blame her. He’s already decided he hates Hollander, and he kind of wants to smile at him kindly too. Fuck. He’s so soft. Marleau still ribs him about the first time he saw one of those stupid commercials and immediately donated 1500 dollars to the closest shelter.
Wendy places her hand on the small of Hollander’s back. It’s awkward. They’re both looking into the locker room, but he’s standing behind her, so she has to reach her arm back and around to get there. Hollander obediently steps forward, in line with Wendy.
Now that Hollander isn’t half-shrouded by Wendy, Ilya lets his eyes trail down the length of his body. Assessing.
He’s not big. Not by professional hockey standards, and certainly not by Bears standards, who have taken the title of heaviest team in the MLH for the past 10 years (they took tallest for a while too, until Vegas signed their freakishly giant Dutch goalie). Hollander is maybe 5’8. Not skinny, obviously, but lean. Lots of muscle. Not a lot of fat. Ilya wonders if that’s a baby thing.
He’s wearing a black, long-sleeve compression shirt and grey sweats that look a little too big. The waistband is folded over itself, displaying a thin sliver of Hollander’s stomach, smooth and tanned and cut. He’s wearing ugly shoes.
Ilya’s eyes travel up. He takes in Hollander’s face. The soft angles of it. The smooth, brown skin. Asian, definitely, but Ilya can’t get much more specific than that. Thick head of hair. Freckles. He’s not unattractive, but he probably wouldn't be called hot. He’s cute. His cheeks are a little flushed and he has thick, straight lashes that frame his brown eyes and pink lips that are moving and talking and Ilya should probably be listening.
“-to be here.” Hollander finishes, pursing his lips briefly, like he regrets speaking at all. The room is quiet for a second. This is typically when the rookie peacocks a little. Gives a rundown of their background, peppering in accolades and humble brags. Hollander stays quiet, looks to Wendy, then to Coach, then back to Wendy. She smiles, smooths her hand up Hollander’s back to pat him once between the shoulder blades. She pushes him farther into the locker room, finally past the threshold of the door. Her hand stays attached to Hollander’s back.
LeClaire walks towards the pair of them.
“Well, we’re happy to have you here, son. I think we’re gonna have a real great season. You’re a beast.”
God. Ilya rolls his eyes and hopes LeClaire at least prepped before riding Hollander’s dick.
At least Hollander doesn’t seem to be very happy about it either. He smiles, all shy and awkward, rolling his shoulders once. Wendy gets the hint and lets her hand fall down to her side.
“Well, grab a free locker, son. We’ll get ya settled in in no time.” LeClaire instructs, maybe sensing Hollander’s apparent inability to take initiative.
Hollander nods silently and heads towards the nearest locker with a blank namecard. He looks back at LeClaire, questioning.
“That one’s fine, bud.” LeClaire’s voice is already softening into something quieter. Bud, instead of son. Ilya catalogues this, and judging by the looks exchanged by some of the other guys, he’s not the only one who noticed it.
LeClaire and Wendy exchange a few murmured words before LeClaire excuses himself to step outside the locker room with her. Hollander, having occupied himself with organizing his sparse belongings into the locker, looks towards them with apparent apprehension. Ilya almost expects him to say something. He doesn’t. LeClaire shuts the door behind him and Wendy on the way out.
Hollander takes a box of black stick tape out of his bag. A 2-pack. Removes the cardboard packaging from them. Stacks the rolls neatly in the bottom of his locker. Unnecessary. He takes out another package of tape, white this time, before Ilya decides to say something.
“You can talk, yes?”
It comes out mean. It was meant to be mean, probably. Ilya doesn’t care to examine his intentions.
Hollander pauses. Looks up at Ilya with big, nervous eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Nods once, then seems to realize that doesn’t really prove anything.
“Yes. Yes, sorry.” It’s quiet, murmured. “I’m just a little nervous, I think.” Hollander half-smiles. A small, placating, self-deprecating thing. The type of thing that probably makes reporters and coaches and old ladies at the grocery store coo over him. Pat his cheek or smooth his hair and reassure him.
Ilya is unmoved by it. He doesn’t respond to Hollander directly. Lets his eyes scan the room, catalogues the reactions of his teammates and is annoyed when he finds mainly indifference and a touch of endearment.
Fucking baby fever, or whatever they call it.
“Ah, it’s ok.” He raises his eyebrows at Marleau, who at least looks a little amused by Hollander’s patheticness. “He’s just nervous.” Ilya coos mockingly.
It gets a hearty laugh out of Marleau, and a few quieter chuckles out of the other guys. More importantly, it makes Hollander flush and fumble with the package in his hands.
Ilya walks towards Hollander. Up close, he looks even smaller. At least 6 inches shorter than Ilya and 50 pounds lighter. He smells clean, like Dove soap. Ilya takes the package of tape out of his hands and tucks it in the upper shelf of the locker, far back enough that Hollander will have to go on his tip-toes to reach it. Maybe he’ll have to stand on the bench, if Ilya’s lucky.
Hollander furrows his brows, like he’s trying to decide if he’s being messed with or not. He lifts his chin to peek at the tape, but Ilya intercepts, grabbing his chin and turning Hollander’s face side to side, as if he’s inspecting him.
“Cute face.” He muses, then runs his thumb roughly along the length of Hollander’s jaw. The skin is smooth and soft, but the Ilya can feel the sharp jut of bone just beneath it. A delightful little contrast.
“No hair here. Is that a baby thing, or does your mama shave your face for you?”
Hollander blinks at him, then firmly pushes Ilya’s hand away. Ilya releases his grip, but not before squeezing Hollander’s chin harder. He grimaces in response, probably more out of irritation than genuine pain. Maybe not. Maybe littles also have a stupid low pain tolerance in addition to their laundry list of other issues. It wouldn’t surprise Ilya. Hollander furrows his brows at Ilya, lips pulling into a taut little pout. The delicate line of his cheekbones is flushed with embarrassment, and there are faint red imprints around his mouth from where Ilya gripped him too firmly.
Ilya feels giddy. God, he forgot how much fun it was to be an asshole. He smiles down at Hollander, waits for him to respond.
Hollander disappoints him. Of fucking course he does. He doesn’t bite back, or stutter out a pathetic defence. He rolls his eyes - a subtle, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it little glance upwards that Ilya notably does not miss - then turns back to his bag to continue meticulously organizing his locker.
What a pretentious little brat. If he’s gonna be a stupid baby, he should at least be entertaining to mess with as well.
“Ah, ok. I see.” Ilya says, sharper than before. He leans against the lockers beside Hollander’s, shares a look with the team, then tilts his head to try to catch Hollander’s eyes again. It’s unsuccessful. Little shit.
“You are a very bad boy, I think, to ignore your captain.”
Hollander finally glances up again. He looks at Ilya incredulously, like he’s trying to suss out if he’s being serious. There’s a bit of fear there too. Ilya likes that.
“It’s ok, sweetheart.” Ilya coos at him, reaching out to grab his hip and turn him bodily away from his locker. Hollander pivots without resistance and Ilya rewards him with a biting pinch of the soft flesh there.
“I am a very, hm, accommodating captain. You are lucky. We will make a very good boy out of you.” Ilya pats his Hollander’s hip roughly - once, then twice. He shifts towards Hollander and stands up straighter than usual, relishing in the way Shane‘s eyes sharpen with something angry even as he shrinks back.
The locker room door opens, and LeClaire walks in. Hollander takes an abrupt step back as Ilya casually sits back on the bench.
LeClaire smiles at Hollander first,
“All good in here, Shane?”
“Yes, coach.”
“Good, great. Roz, a word?”
Ilya groans exaggeratedly as he pushes to stand upright again. He has to step past Hollander as he walks to the locker room door, biting down a grin when he hears a pathetic, sharp little inhale of breath as he brushes Hollander’s shoulder.
—--
LeClaire is stressed, clearly. He’s talking a mile a minute. Ilya, in a rare display of self-discipline, lets him.
“-and I know you don’t really do the whole rookie-housing situation, normally, but this is an exceptional circumstance, right? Wendy told me that Hollander’s mom is a real piece of work, refuses to let the kid live alone, and you live close to the rink and the center that he’s gonna - I don’t know - regress at, or whatever, so it just- “
“I’ll do it.” Ilya finally interrupts the frantic rambling of his coach. He’s proud of how calm his voice is, even as he can feel a steady thrum of anticipation grow in his gut.
“-makes sen- wait, what? For real?” LeClaire stares at him incredulously. Shit. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed so readily.
“Yes, I mean, you said it, right? Makes sense, I have the room, whatever. Yes, I’ll do it.” It’s a solid attempt at damage control. It works, probably, because LeClaire nods with an understanding hum.
“Thanks, Roz, seriously. We’re lucky to have you, man. You and Hollander, shit, we’re gonna be unstoppable this year-”
Ilya nods once and heads back toward the locker room so he doesn’t have to hear anymore gushing about stupid Shane Hollander.
But he’s smiling as he pushes the door open. Scratch what he said before. This might be Ilya’s favourite season yet.
Ilya’s final season. His magnum fucking opus.
Shane Hollander’s first season.
Shane Hollander’s last season.
–---
Ilya has never been in Wendy’s office before.
It’s nice, calm. A simple desk, 2 cushy leather chairs and a matching sofa. It’s late afternoon, and the September sun is already setting, bathing the whole room in warm, golden light.
Ilya is splayed out leisurely on the couch, watching Wendy type rapidly on her laptop, occasionally letting his gaze drift to the miscellaneous pictures and trinkets meticulously arranged around the office.
She sighs, finally lifting her gaze from the laptop to Ilya.
“Sorry.” She says, unapologetic, “Just need to finish this up.”
Ilya shrugs, smiles. Still high off the mere idea of how Hollander will react to him, to this.
He wonders if LeClaire told him yet. Or if Wendy did. He seems to feel more comfortable with her anyway. Mama’s boy, probably.
He hopes no one told him. Ilya would really like to see how he reacts.
Wendy’s office door is open, but LeClaire still knocks on the doorframe when he arrives. Wendy closes her laptop in lieu of a greeting, but Ilya can see her eyes soften as Hollander trails quietly into the office behind LeClaire. He shuts the door behind him, even though no one asked him to. As LeClaire settles heavily into the leather armchair nearest the door, Ilya can see Hollander’s eyes scan the office. The desk, LeClaire’s armchair, the empty half of the sofa - eyes deliberately dropping to not meet Ilya’s - then the farther armchair. Hollander deliberates, then crosses the office to sit delicately on the edge of the unoccupied chair.
“How are you settling in, Shane?” Wendy poses, gently. Gentler than Ilya knew she was capable of being. Hollander has that effect on people, it seems. Gross.
Hollander nods minutely, “Fine.”
What a charmer.
“Good. We - me and your coach - just wanted to talk to you about a few things before the season begins. Is that alright?”
A shift. Hollander glances over towards Ilya. It’s quick. Ilya would have missed it if he wasn’t already looking at Hollander, too.
LeClaire catches it too.
“Roz is only here for a bit, bud. We just wanted to talk about your living situation real quick.”
Hollander glances again at Ilya. More apprehensive this time.
Ah, so no one told him yet. Ilya’s fucking giddy.
“It’s kind of a tradition we have here, y’know. Rookie lives with the captain. We find it helps them settle in.”
A big fucking lie. Trying to save the kid embarrassment, obviously. Ilya can’t tell if it's working - if the flush on Hollander’s cheeks is from anger, or embarrassment, or some sad mix of both.
“And your mom, she asked us to place you with someone. Just for this season! And it’s normal, as we said, lots of guys do it. We’re not trying to imply anything about-”
Wendy cuts LeClaire off with an abrupt clear of her throat.
“Ilya has a big place. It’s close to the rink, nice and local. And it’s a good way for you to bond with your team.” Wendy concludes with a polite, professional smile. One that implies little room for argument.
Hollander is, at least, intelligent enough to get that. He stares at Ilya openly now.
“And you - you’re ok with this?” He asks, disbelieving.
Ilya smiles. Not his usual leer, but something more put-on. The charming, responsible captain smiles that he’s perfected over years of pressers and charity galas.
“Ah, you know, accommodating captain.” Something flickers in Hollander’s eyes.
“Not safe for little boys to be alone anyhow. That’s what your mama says, right?”
It lands. Something small and sharp at first - that same flash of fury in the glassy depths of Hollander’s eyes - that spreads into the stiff plane of his shoulders, his clenched core, the faint wrinkle of his noise.
“I’m not a little boy. I’m 18. An adult.”
“Mm, a little, though.”
“That doesn’t - that doesn’t mean anything! I don’t even drop that… young.”
“Oh, I know, Hollander. No diapers, I even heard. Such a big boy.” Ilya lets his voice lilt up at the end, condescending and saccharine sweet.
“Shut up!” Hollander hisses. It’s not a yell, not even close, but it’s the loudest Ilya’s heard him be yet.
“Ok, let’s cool it.” LeClaire cuts in. Ilya thinks he looks a bit amused, maybe. Behind his mask of obligatory disapproval. He continues,
“There’s no need to be embarrassed with Rozanov, Shane. He’s just teasing. He’s a great captain, ask any of the guys.”
“Right, well, maybe we should hold off on the “teasing” for now, right Ilya?” Wendy cuts piercing eyes at Ilya. Defensive over the baby, Ilya notes. He nods immediately anyway, trying to look appropriately chastised, lest Wendy decide he’s not a good fit.
“Good. If we’re all in agreement, then, there’s not much to go over. Shane, your contract states that you’ll report to the Little Wellness Center for a scheduled biweekly drop. You’re aware of this?”
Shane nods.
“You’ll also have a monthly visit with a social worker to evaluate your living situation. Adequate food, cleanliness, general wellness checkup. Ilya will need to be in attendance for these as well, so we’ll schedule around both of you.”
Wendy shuffles through a stack of papers on her desk, presumably Hollander’s contract.
“Of course, you’ll remain in compliance with the laws around your designation. No alcohol, no substance use. You’ll be subjected to random testing for these. There’s labor laws as well, but we tried to arrange the training schedule around them as best as possible, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”
Wendy continues to prattle on. Ilya’s admittedly a bit shocked by how much there is to prattle on about.
He half-listens. Sneaks glances at Hollander every so often. Hollander doesn’t speak much, mostly just nods and hums as Wendy and LeClaire give him the lowdown on training and sponsorships and media days. But he looks quietly pleased. Ilya can guess how he’s feeling, thinking back to his own rookie year. How unreal the first couple days felt, that strange transitory period - after he was signed but before pre-season officially began. The anticipation and excitement and self-satisfaction compounding and melding into a physical thrum. It felt euphoric. When he first arrived in Boston, Ilya stayed up for 3 days straight, fuelled by cold showers, vodka, and freedom.
Ilya supposes that Hollander will celebrate a little differently. He can’t drink, not legally, though that never stopped Ilya. Probably a bit more taboo to let a baby into the bar than a rowdy teenager, though. He wonders how Hollander would take a shot, how he’d recoil and wince and whine. If his big brown eyes would get all teary. He thinks about grabbing Hollander by the chin and pouring too much vodka into his pretty mouth, till it spills out the sides and drips onto his chest.
“Alright, son. Ready for Roz to take ya home?” LeClaire’s on his feet now, a hand clapping Shane’s shoulder. Hollander nods, once. He looks nervous again, like he did in the locker room. Poor baby.
Ilya stands. Smiles widely as he grabs Shane’s other shoulder and squeezes, fingers digging into the lean muscle there.
“Come, Hollander.”
He leaves. Shane follows.