Chapter Text
PopCrew (@PopCrew) ILYA ROZANOV seen with an unnamed sports player for dinner in New York.
(Alt text: a blurry, zoomed-in image of Ilya Rozanov, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, entering a restaurant after a shorter figure.)
Carla @hockeyyyyy
This is why I can’t trust men 😰😭😭
LEONOV IS REAL @delululemon
@ballfootball did you see this 👀👀
#1 Hollanov Stan @begaywinhockey
Unnamed sports player 🤔🤔 do you mean his HUSBAND SHANE HOLLANDER??🤔🤔 who was ALSO SEEN IN NEW YORK??
Arsenall Deez Nutz @ballfootball
@delululemon @begaywinhockey there is no way that skinny twink in that picture is Hollander but also if you think Leo Moreau is anywhere that tall ur more delusional than I thought
#1 Hollanov Stan @begaywinhockey
The second person is mostly covered by a door and the picture has all of three pixels, but go off I guess
STREAM PINK FRIDAY 2 @BarbieTinz420
We blame Cardi
Emilio Laveroni was an enigma - or so said the press. Not too much was known about him, other than the fact that he was close to his family (his sister was his assistant, and all of his family lived nearby), and that he was gay. The latter fact would be enough to cause a firestorm for anyone else (and probably the reason why Ducati even reached out to Ilya and Leo, thought Shane with some bitterness), if not for the fact that there was so little else about his life that the media’s flaming interest ran out of oxygen and chased more interesting stories. The man himself seemed to actively contribute to this, from what Shane observed during one memorable afternoon of “research” done in a moment of anxiety and heightened tension, a part of him still wary of the deal. (“Binging videos of hot European men with stubble,” said a pouting Ilya, observing his husband stare at interviews of racing drivers that were screencast onto their tv in Ottawa, “and yet he ignores his own hot European husband with stubble. Is the spark gone?” “I thought you were Canadian now?” “I can be European also. I have layers.”). Emilio Laveroni barely seemed to tolerate interviews - all the more unfortunate for how often he was forced to attend post-race press conferences, as a two-time world champion - and all he talked about in interviews was his riding. There was one memorable moment - an interview from around five years ago, right around the summer break, when Emilio was still a rookie - when the interviewer asked about his plans with his family. Emilio merely raised his eyebrows, stared down the interviewer with his dark, piercing eyes, and answered that while he was aware his family were quite involved in his racing life, he wasn’t quite sure how discussing family is pertinent to the race, as he was the only Laveroni sibling to actually ride. Age didn’t seem to change his stance, if anything it strengthened it - and interviewers soon learned to keep their questions pertinent, if they wanted any sound bites from the champion. Perhaps for want of a better word, intense was their adjective of choice in describing them - intensely focused, intensely concentrated, intensely private.
Ilya and Shane agreed to meet Ducati in New York, if only to have an excuse to visit Scott Hunter’s bar, and because Shane knew his husband, and knew that he was at least curious about what a Ducati partnership would entail. Shane wanted to be supportive, and he did agree to give Ducati a chance, even if he would rather Leo Moreau, and any reference to that awful man, be self-obliterated into the stratosphere. Shane wanted to be better at allowing Ilya independence, and letting him do what he wanted to do. He did not want his wonderful husband to think he had to do things to make Shane feel happy, that Shane’s happiness came at the expense of Ilya. They were both working on it, Shane knew, and he wanted to be better. So. Leo, and Ducati, and New York.
And, well. It had some level of awkwardness, as all business meetings are wont to do, but looking back, Shane felt a little silly about being so defensive over something that’s only marginally connected to Leo Moreau. Okay, so maybe Ducati weren’t entirely blameless for trying to capitalize on social media hype, but their rider was an entirely different story altogether. For all of his supposed media intensity, he was intensely - normal . First impressions aren't everything, but at least to Shane he seemed like someone who you’d like to bring home to your mother. Like what others said about him .
Before the dinner meeting with Ducati, Ilya gave Shane a long, deep, kiss, and promised that he wouldn’t do anything that Shane didn’t feel comfortable with him doing. Shane melted into the kiss, in awe about how much he loved his husband, and appreciated the gesture - even if he was pretty sure it was Ilya trying to distract him from the upcoming meeting. The day had come and gone - Shane sometimes felt anxious about the busyness of NYC, but it was great seeing Scott and Kip again - and before Shane knew it, he and Ilya walked into the fancy New York restaurant, hand-in-hand. Even after all this time, Shane couldn’t help but feel his heart skip a beat when he held his husband’s hand in public, and he used that warm feeling as an anchor as they were quickly ushered into a private room. The restaurant was sleek and minimalist in a way that was inoffensive and screamed luxury; the walls and ceilings were painted the same navy-black, and the hardwood floors had an diamond inlay pattern of multiple shades of dark brown. The small room was illuminated by wall-lamps which gave off an intimate, yellowish glow. A chain of hexagonal crystal blocks were hanging from the ceiling, catching the yellowing glow and releasing it in a spray of sepia-toned rainbow sparks. The overall effect reminded Shane of a hobbit-hole, if said hobbit decided he suddenly liked Art Deco Minimalism and had a Midtown-budget to go along with his new taste in furniture. In the middle of the room was a large, dark-oakwood circular table, and four individuals were already sitting at the table. There was an old man, a younger man, a blond-haired woman, and a young man with curly brown hair, who were talking in hushed Italian but ceased upon the entrance of the two hockey players. The young man with curly brown hair looked up, and Shane was met with an intense, piercing stare - that must be Emilio Laveroni, his brain supplied - and a small smile.
”Thank you for joining us,” the younger man stood up and said, offering his hand to shake. “My name is Antonio Curti, and I am the head of social media relations at Ducati. To the right of me is Alfonso Panciale, head of North American relations at Ducati, and to the left of me is Lucretia Laveroni, executive assistant to Emilio Laveroni. And of course, the man of the hour - Emilio Laveroni.” Shane and Ilya shook hands with the entire team and exchanged pleasantries before sitting down.
”We are very pleased that you have agreed to meet with us,” said Alfonso Panciale, after food and drinks had been ordered. The silver-haired man was gregarious, with a jolly smile and a pleasant demeanor. “We truly believe that this partnership can be effective for both parties. We are happy to answer any questions that you may have, and hopefully come to an agreement if possible.”
Ilya started to talk, going immediately into details about the potential partnership. His biting commentary seemed to be a big hit with Emilio’s sister in particular, and Shane used Ilya being in his element to drift off slightly and observe the rider. Emilio Laveroni, the wunderkid from Rome, Ducati’s pride and joy. He was dressed in a well-fitting, muted baby-blue suit that complemented his slightly-tanned skin and contrasted nicely against the striking eyes Shane had immediately noticed. He had dark, wavy hair in a similar color to his chestnut-brown eyes, and his stubble, also chestnut, had flecks of red sprinkled in. He was mostly silent during the conversation, adding a couple of pleasantries here and there, but mostly observing the situation (which ended up being watching Ilya and his sister get along like a house on fire - Shane noted with some mild alarm that the conversation had somehow drifted to the most embarrassing cooking mistakes the two had made) with a small smile on his lips. The man would occasionally sweep his eyes across the room, and when he made eye contact with Shane, he would tilt his head in a barely-perceptible nod. Shane didn’t know what to make of him, exactly, but he seemed to be different from Leo, which was a very good sign in Shane’s book.
“Any other questions?” Alfonso said, spreading his hands out. The dinner was nearing its end - the desserts were ordered, the wine bottle was empty - and Shane was generally satisfied with the night. He hoped Ilya was, too. The deal seemed very good: Ilya would get to ride around the Dolomites for some promotional pictures on the newest version of Ducati’s Panigale V4R, custom made to be in Centaurs colors. Emilio, Ilya, and Leo would spend a couple of days shooting promotional content, and Ilya would probably have to do some brand ambassador events in North America and Europe, although the latter would probably be much later in the year to account for the start of the hockey season. The events and the promotional content would mean that Ilya would have to interact with Leo, but Shane was hopeful that Emilio would be a good buffer against the soccer player, and he liked how the Dolomites shoot would only include his husband. As a bonus, Ilya would get to keep the motorcycle, which Shane knew was a big draw; Shane had heard Ilya bitch more than once about how the nearest dealership was in Montreal, and how the nicest models were European-exclusive.
Shane and Ilya glanced at each other. ”Yes, one question,” asked Ilya. “I would like my husband to join me. We believe it would make the promotion stronger, if two of the biggest names in hockey collaborated with Ducati.”
Shane blinked and felt his heart ache. Ilya - his wonderful, kind, Ilya - who even now, was trying to make Shane feel comfortable, to reassure him of their bond. Shane appreciated the gesture and would otherwise think it unnecessary - but also, Shane wouldn’t be opposed to a free trip to Europe, so nodded resolutely, as if it was not a completely unplanned question by Ilya. Antonio looked at Shane, slightly hesitant. He had the face of someone who would like the idea, but had a boss that would probably disapprove of excessive spending. Shane was suddenly reminded of when Ilya bought a custom foam finger with the words “I <3 Shane Hollander’s Dick” on it; he was sure he had the same exact expression on his face, and barely suppressed both a groan and a grin. (Shane had acquiesced to Ilya putting it up on the wall, and Shane secretly hoped it meant that Ducati would agree as well.)
The team started speaking in rapid-fire Italian under their breath, going back-and-forth for what seemed like ages. Lucretia in particular seemed animated, gesticulating with her hands and pointing at something on her phone. Alfonso closed his eyes, face impassive, while Antonio interjected with the occasional remark. Emilio sat, eyes observing the situation, listening to his sister and Antonio argue over a point - until he suddenly said something in sharp, crisp Italian that caused the two to fall into silence. He continued to speak, making a quick gesture to Shane and Ilya, and shrugged his shoulders in conclusion. Whatever he said must have worked, because Alfonso nodded, Lucretia smiled, and Antonio sighed, tapping away something on his phone.
Antonio turned back to Shane and spoke. “Of course, I think that would be reasonable. I would have to check in with finances, but I believe Ducati would be amenable if possible. Shane, do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”
“I do not,” replied Shane, “and I am not sure if I should learn how to. It would be very bad if both of Ottawa’s team players would be injured from a motorcycle joyride.”
“I am very good at riding,” interjected Ilya, “so there are no worries about me. It cannot be that hard, sweetheart, you just sit on a bike and let the motor do the moving.”
“Of course, Ilya, riding a motorcycle is very easy.”
“It is easy if you know how to speak to motorcycle, like I can,” Ilya chirped back, smiling cockily. Underneath the table, however, he gently squeezed Shane’s hand, as if to assuage his fears and to say that I understand your worry, and I will try to be careful. Shane knew that the last thing Ilya wanted was to get injured and put himself in a position where Shane would worry. In turn, Shane wanted to respect his husband over letting his anxiety win, and let Ilya take reasonable risks. Ilya was a good motorcycle rider, and Shane knew he wouldn’t be alone - in between a well-known motorcycle company who had a very strong incentive to show their bikes as safe, and a large film crew, Ilya would never truly be in danger, and besides, it wasn’t like the Dolomites were in the middle of nowhere. They were beautiful and grand, true, but towns dotted the mountainscape, and Europe as a whole was very small. There would be a hospital nearby if anything happened, Shane reasoned to himself.
“I can teach him,” Emilio interjected, almost as if reading Shane’ mind. “If you would feel comfortable, of course.” He looked directly at Shane. “I respect you both as athletes and individuals and would not like to do anything that contradicts that.” A silence descended on the table, the image of Leo Moreau and the hockey players’ public feud on the back of their minds. Emilio smiled, a small quirk of the lips on an otherwise expressionless mask. “I am not a famous football player, my career would not survive such a scandal were social media to find out.”
Shane couldn’t help but laugh at that, and the tension in the room evaporated. “That is a kind offer,” replied Shane, “but I don’t feel comfortable riding on a motorcycle. I respect your sport as well,” he nodded towards the Italian, and then tilted his head towards Ilya, “but I am nervous enough about the prospect of my husband riding through the mountainous wilderness. I am not sure if I can handle the stress myself.” Shane looked at the Italian man and made a decision. “But I would not mind if another rider were to accompany him, just in case. I think it would be a good idea from a safety perspective.”
”Are you saying that you don’t trust me in the Dolomites by myself?” Ilya joked, dramatically putting on a shocked face. The Italians laughed.
”I’m saying that you once made a wrong turn from our local grocery store going home, and I would be very unhappy if you accidentally took a wrong turn in the Dolomites and ended up in Austria instead of in Italy.”
”Actually,” Lucretia said, “that might be an idea.” She said something quickly in Italian to her teammates, but continued before they had a chance to respond. “The Austrian Grand Prix is in late August. We originally expected the filming to be sometime late June or early July, but why don’t we switch it to mid-August? You can drive around the Dolomites on the Ducati, as was previously discussed, and my brother can take you into Austria towards Lienz. We can film the rest of the content after Hungary, maybe, sometime late August. I’m thinking everything would take around two weeks or so? My brother would be free, he would be able to guide you around, and it would be great promotional material for Ducati as well.” (She said this without a glance towards her younger brother, who made no show of emotion other than to blink rapidly twice.) “We would be happy to drive you around, Shane, so you can be with your husband when we stay the night. You can be guests at the Austrian Grand Prix,” she was mostly talking to the others on her team at that point, “and maybe we can have you wave the checkered flag as well.”
”I don’t mind,” supplied her brother. Shane noticed how Emilio closed his eyes a tad longer than what would classify as a normal blink. “I am used to riding.”
Ilya nodded, face cool and impassive, but Shane knew that his husband was very interested in the idea of riding a motorcycle with a professional athlete. Ilya spoke. “One last thing. I think you understand our hesitation about Leo Moreau after everything,” - Ilya waved his hand, as if to reference Leo making an embarrassment of himself online, although Shane was also sure it referred to how Ilya wanted to punch Leo’s face, “and I am concerned if it impacts myself or my husband’s…image.” Shane squeezed his husband’s hand under the table in support.
Lucretia leaned forward, face very serious. Her dark eyes became sharp, and Shane suddenly saw the uncanny sibling resemblance. “Ducati believes in respecting all sportsmen and individuals,” Lucretia said seriously, “if there is any moment where he is acting uncomfortable towards you, please speak to me and I will handle it.” She smiled, all strength and teeth, and something in her demeanor reminded Shane of Svetlana. Her brother nodded in support, brows furrowing, while the two other Italian men looked on with resigned acceptance. “Unfortunately, he would be there for some time for filming obligations, but as we previously mentioned, we would be happy to stagger the promotions so that the journey to Lienz would be without Leo Moreau. As the sportsman most closely associated with racing - excluding my brother, of course - I assume the media team would want as much content with Ilya and Ducati as much as possible, which would most likely mean exclusive content. The second part of the contract would necessitate filming with all three of you, which would require consistent contact. But again, we’d be happy to adjust once the time comes, and put as much distance as you request.” She sat straight again and lifted her wine glass. “I, for one, am on your side. If someone did that to my husband I would be wanted for more than my skills as an assistant.” She tilted the wine glass towards Shane in silent cheers, winking. “Please do not worry. I’ll take care of it.”
And, well. Ducati made a compelling case, and with the hopeful look on Ilya’s face, who was Shane to deny?
”We’ll consider it,” Shane said with finality, certain that they’d end up agreeing to the deal once they go back to the hotel room. He mentally started drafting up a list of what he’d need to do, once returning home to Ottawa. Find comfortable clothes, create a first aid kit for Ilya, create an itinerary for Italy, buy a mountaineering GPS tracker for Ilya…
“I can’t believe you said that, Luetta,” exclaimed Emilio over a pot of not-quite-boiling water. The siblings had returned to Italy a couple of days prior, and although there had been no firm contracts signed, Ducati’s team was confident enough that it would go through, to the extent that Emilio was already being pulled (“bullied by his sister” would be another way to put it) into various meetings to plan for the Dolomites bike tour. From what he had seen, Ducati would pay for Shane and Ilya to fly into Bologna, where they would have a couple of days to recuperate and tour the Ducati factory in Borgo Panigale; afterwards, Ilya and Emilio would travel around the Dolomites, stopping along the way at picturesque Italian-Alps villages until they reached their final destination of Lienz. Of course, were it up to Emilio he would have driven directly, pushing the bike to the limit as he rode the 400-or-so kilometers towards the Italian border. Unfortunately, this was not considered “good for content,” even if it was good for motorcycle riders, so he would have to listen to whatever plan Ducati thought of for him. He only hoped that Ilya Rozanov would also focus on riding over the cameras, although he wasn’t so sure. “Seriously. What part of the promotional campaign had Ilya Rozanov ride a Ducati to Lienz? Isn’t just a normal ride in the Dolomites good enough?”
”The part that I created to get us the deal,” Lucretia responded. “I am here for a reason, and not just because my baby brother is good at hitting the apex.” She chopped up some tomatoes and dumped them into a pan over low heat, slowly starting to sauté them with butter. “Trust me, it was the Lienz trip that sold them.”
“That, and probably the part where you said you would personally murder Leo Moreau if you could.”
Lucretia gesticulated at nothing in particular. “And tell me you wouldn’t? Everyone knows what he’s like. I have no idea why Ducati even asked to work with him, but that’s Ducati for you. An Old Boy’s club. Of course they would invite an asshole for the optics of acceptance. Maybe they should start accepting their own retirements.” She muttered angrily at the slowly-simmering tomatoes.
Leo Moreau was the sore spot of the entire contract, from what Emilio could tell. He wouldn’t blame them. If he were Shane and Ilya, he would see the project as a bit of a Faustian deal: a free ride into the Dolomites, but also a requirement to interact with Leo Moreau, at least for a little while. Not for the first time, Emilio wondered if Shane Hollander’s hatred of the man would be enough to convince his husband not to accept the exclusive promotion, thereby saving Emilio the fate of having to ride with cameras like a reality TV star. “Well, Leo Moreau is famous. By far the most famous of the three of us. It makes sense Ducati would want him.”
“Don’t start, Emilio,” she said, suddenly very serious. “You are a two-time champion in your own right. So what if you’re not a world-famous footballer or a hockey player? You are the best at what you do. You also break records, you also dazzle fans, and most importantly, no one ever races like you do. That’s why you’re at Ducati, on their factory model.” She pointed a wooden spoon at her brother’s face. “Where is your confidence on the bike, hm? You win race after race, and then the cameras come on, you are asked a couple of questions, and you hide in your shell.”
“You got some butter on my apron,” Emilio lamented, because sometimes complaining was the easiest option.
“That’s why you wear an apron,” she replied, “and stop ignoring the question.”
Emilio sighed. “It’s different when it’s - when it’s not about racing. And you know I don’t like the cameras. It feels artificial, like they are looking for a version of myself that the cameras have already decided they want. And add to the fact this long-form promotion means I’ll be spending an extended time with the cameras - I don’t know. I already hate the YouTube content they make us do for MotoGP. In a way, I wish it was just with the original plan; then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”
“Ilya Rozanov would not have taken the deal without the ride in the Dolomites, you know this.”
“But did it really have to include this whole spectacle? The mini-documentary across the Dolomites isn’t just not a promotion, it feels closer to what Drive To Survive is. No one really cares about racing in Drive To Survive , and I’m not sure they really care about Emilio Laveroni on his ride across the Dolomites with Ilya Rozanov. Which is a shame, because he really did seem like someone who would appreciate a good motorcycle. He seemed excited about the custom motorcycle, from what I could tell.”
“Yes, but one day you will retire, and it would be nice for you to have some other sources of income that you can lean back on.”
“I can’t believe you’re ruining a perfectly good pasta I made with the news that one day I will have to retire.”
“Or I guess you can race until you’ve completely fused in with the bike.”
”If I wanted money, I would have signed up for KTM. They have RedBull money.”
”True, and then you can help support my caffeine addiction with free RedBulls.”
”As if you don’t already have free caffeine from all the cappuccinos that the marketing manager is giving you.”
”We’ll see how long that lasts,” she said a bit sourly, “it’s complicated. But you’re distracting me.” She turned off the heat of the sauce, and added some basil leaves. “I do think this would be good for you. You can’t rely on racing forever, and at some point you should try to build your brand more, try to have more doors open in the future. You and I have both seen what they say about you, and you are very serious and very good at racing. But that’s not all you are.” She plated the pasta and brought it over to a table overlooking an open window. Below, the ambient chatter of people walking through the upscale, leafy neighborhood in Bologna wafted pleasantly in the air, cocooning the siblings in the sort of peace and ephemerality only summer evenings could give. “That’s not the Emile I know.”
”And this is Ducati. They love you, because you are their - what do they call Charles Leclerc? You are their Il Predestinato , except you have fulfilled your destiny already. You can say no to anything and they will listen, and if not, I will be here for you. I am your manager second, your sister first.”
Emilio felt, not for the first time, lucky that his family were nearby. He may not be Marc Marquez and be racing against a sibling, but if anything he felt that he was luckier, to have Lucretia push him like this, because he knew he would always be on the same team as his sister. He swallowed a lump in his throat and sat down at the table.“Thank you, Luetta.”
Lucretia smirked. “Of course. Now that’s enough sappiness. We have more important things to talk about.”
Emilio had a very bad feeling about this.
“Who did you find more attractive, Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov?” Emilio groaned and rolled his eyes, and Lucretria huffed in mock anger. “What? It’s a real question! How am I supposed to find you a nice Italian man in time for Christmas to make mama happy if I don’t know what kind of man you find attractive? Really, Emilio, you’ve been single for a while now, and I think it would do you good to find someone, unless you want to be stuck on Grindr for the rest of your life, like I bet Leo Moreau is doing…”
MotoGP ™ (@motogp): The top 5 are unstoppable ⚡ How does your favorite stack up going into 🇮🇹 this weekend?
@marquezswife Imagine being mama marquez and having not one, but TWO of her children be world-class racers. I would literally NEVER shut up about it.
@torrirossi look at our boi Emilio being number #1 🐐🐐🐐
@gwenchanadingdingdingdingding when will you come to Malaysia?