Chapter Text
***
January 2017 – sometimes after All-Stars game
If Ilya allows himself to think about it (he doesn’t… he really can’t let himself think about it) there are hundreds of things that make him fall in love with Shane Hollander.
He falls in love with Shane’s beautiful freckled face and the dark eyes that almost never meet his own and his filthy talented mouth.
He falls in love with Shane’s brilliance on the ice, his unmatched speed, his laser focus on the game, his control of the puck and his weak backhand.
He falls in love with Shane’s boring “polite Canadian” image when he answers stupid journalist questions and his dry sarcastic humor that nobody seems to know about.
He falls in love with Shane’s ability to communicate a thousand different things with a simple “fuck you”.
He falls in love with Shane’s real estate fetish and the way his face lights up when he talks about his investment properties and countertop materials.
He falls in love with the neat way Shane folds his clothes and stacks the million pillows on his bed and hangs up used towels in hotel bathrooms.
He falls with the way that afterwards Shane turns around and devours Ilya’s mouth or cock like he doesn’t have a single inhibition in the world
He falls in love with how Shane would never let him win at anything in his life, even a race up the stairs, but drops to his knees at a smallest command.
He falls in love with how Shane looks annoyed and tense and awkward every minute of his life and immediately melts into a puddle on the sheets at the touch of Ilya’s
He falls in love with the arch of Shane’s neck as Ilya pushes inside him and his hands on Ilya’s neck, just short touch away from his hair.
He falls in love with the sound of Shane’s voice in French and his guttural moans and the way he mutters “Jesus Christ” when Ilya is 5 seconds away making him fall apart.
He falls and falls and falls… he is afraid that he’ll keep falling forever.
He absolutely doesn’t fall in love with Shane’s kindness.
***
Kindness is not part of Ilya’s world. It hasn’t been for such a long time that he barely remembers what it feels like to be at the receiving end of it. He’s not something that people are kind to.
***
December 2008 – Regina – Sasketchewan
He just wants a moment to himself.
It’s cold outside, but not as cold as he expected. His first time in fucking Canada and isn’t it supposed to be freezing?
The last few weeks have been intense, the kind of intense that Ilya typically thrives on. The training has been brutal, the coach has been driving them to the ground, the atmosphere in the locker room is so tense it can cut through with a knife, the media attention has been more intense than he’s ever experienced.
There is a lot riding out on this championship. International recognition, the draft in 6 months. Russia’s reputation and honor, a familiar voice says in his head. Maybe even with his father’s approval, a small part of him dares to whisper.
He’s been keeping himself under control every minute of every day, constantly alert, constantly looking out for anything that threatens his ability to achieve what he wants. It’s not like he’s not getting help, but everyone is playing their own game, has their own agenda and, at the end of the day, he’s on his own here.
Now he feels all the strain starting to get to him. The restless energy has brewing underneath his skin, and he just needs 10 minutes of peace.
It's not cold, but it’s windy as hell. He finds a semi-hidden spot at the end of the arena and tries to light up. The shitty American lighter he picked up at the corner store doesn’t even pretend to do its job.
“Ilya Rozanov?” – he turns around and tenses - “Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself”
As if Ilya doesn’t know who he is… as if Ilya’s ears haven’t been filled in the last week with comparisons between himself and “Ottawa’s own Shane Hollander” possessing the “highest hockey IQ out there”.
Shane Hollander has freckles, Ilya thinks stupidly…
And he’s reaching out his hand for a shake.
Ilya returns the gesture, wary. He’s not sure what Hollander wants with him. To size him up? To wind him up?
Apparently, Hollander wants to lecture him on smoking etiquette or health regulations or some shit like that. But he does it with a smile on his face and his posture is relaxed like he genuinely thinks that Ilya hasn’t noticed a giant sign on the wall. He accompanies his speech with a little hand sign, as if doubting Ilya’s ability to understand the English.
That’s a tough star of the Canadian hockey that Ilya is supposed to be beat? That’s the guy Ilya saw moving across the ice like a perfect machine this morning?
“Ok” Ilya says and takes a drag and looking Hollander up and down.
Shane Hollander is pretty.
“You are an awesome player to watch!” Hollander says and Ilya nearly chokes on his cigarette.
It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s a great player. It’s not like nobody ever tells him that. But he can’t remember the last time anyone said it like that - openly and kindly and without following up with a “but” or a demand. Hollander says it like it’s something natural, something that just needs to be said because it’s true.
“Yes” Ilya replies feeling strangely unsettled. He knows what he is supposed to say back. “You too”. But he wants to rail Hollander up, see if his perfectly polite impression cracks, see if the guy is going to show his hand.
But Hollander doesn’t rise to the bat, just smiles wider, looks down and does a weird little shuffle that lands him standing next to Ilya, back to the wall.
Shane Hollander has a nice smile.
They stand awkwardly for a few moments, the wind picking up around them. Now that Hollander isn’t speaking, it feels strangely peaceful. It should be awkward, but Ilya is feeling himself starting to relax. He tries to keep his expression neutral, though, in case he’s miscalculated and the other man is going to go for his jugular after all.
Finally, the Canadian, discouraged by silent treatment, gives in says his goodbye. He wishes him good luck. And reaches out for another handshake.
Ilya can’t quite hold back the smile that’s trying to split his face as her returns the shake.
Shane Hollander is very pretty – he notices – and fascinating.
Ilya thinks he’s never met anyone like Shane Hollander. As the other man turns around, Ilya can’t help but throwing the last shot.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you” Hollander turns around, surprised. Maybe he did think that Ilya doesn’t speak any English.
“That’s not happening” he returns with a little grin, his sounds a tiny bit annoyed, but not unkind.
“See you in final” Ilya says to his back and turns around to finish his smoke.
It’s cold and windy outside, but he feels strangely warm.
***
February 2011 – All-Stars Game - Nashville
Ilya doesn’t mind the media attention that comes with having a phenomenal rookie season. He thrives on it. He plays up to his image of asshole Russian hockey player, aggressive on the rink, funny in the locker room, cocky everywhere else. He likes winning and he likes boasting about winning.
He wishes his English was better, though, so he could actually talk to the media. While he doesn’t mind being labelled an asshole Russian player, being labelled a dumb Russian player is the last thing he wants.
It’s not like he can’t speak English. He gets by just fine, he understands his coaches and teammates and they understand him. But sometimes watching Mr Shane “I’m perfect” Hollander answering long convoluted questions so easy and flawlessly (in English and French) leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.
Post-game interviews aren’t so bad. The questions tend to be short and on the point. Media eat it up when he shows up bare-chested and sweaty and gives outrageous answers in clipped cocky tone. He smiles and winks and lets them believe it’s all part of his persona.
All-Star Game press conference is another matter altogether.
The room is huge and he and Hollander are placed on display right at the centre, in front of what looks like a thousand journalists.
Ilya decided to wear a suit with a tie and now feels a bit stupid next to much more casually dressed Hollander.
Being next to Hollander doesn’t help either. They are not touching, but somehow Ilya can feel the heat of his body and must stop his own brain constantly looping back on the way Hollander’s skin felt under his hands all those months ago. It makes him feel unsettled and his only saving grace is that Hollander looks just as awkward.
The first question is not too bad. He doesn’t quite get the beginning of it, but the end is clear.
“You are still thinking about the 50-goal campaign?” He’s been asked about it at almost every game, especially after games with Montreal. Everyone knows who the competition on number of goals is with, after all.
He kicks his foot against Hollander’s under the table to draw his attention and replies: “Yes”.
Predictably, they turn with the same question to his rival and just as predictably Hollander replies like a polite Canadian boy, refusing to make a claim about his performance.
And then the next question follows.
Ilya tries to concentrate, but it goes on and on and on and every new word feels like it’s not matching the previous one. By the time the interviewer shuts up, Ilya has no clue about what he’s being asked.
His mouth goes dry and he tries to stall by fixing his collar, desperately thinking about what kind of bullshit he can say. He gets close to the microphone, but nothing comes out. A sick feeling of failure, the one he’s almost forgotten since he moves to the US and started his hockey career, burns its way down to his stomach.
“Sorry, not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov’s permission…” Ilya feels a quick tap against his foot and after a moment hesitation gives a miniscule nod back. Hollander catches his eye quickly, as if he wants to be sure, and launches off.
Hollander gives one of those long, perfect media-trained answers, but he speaks slowly and clearly, in short sentences; he uses simple words like “want”, “win”, “job”, “personally”.
Ilya sits next to him tense and focused. He gets the question now and quickly debaters the best strategy.
“What he said” he deadpans when it’s his turn to answer and the room erupts in laughter.
Ilya allows himself to relax, the sick feeling retreating. It’s replaced by something weirder, an unfamiliar sensation of being treated kindly and compassionately.
He pushes his foot against Hollander’s in silent gratitude and feels the returning pressure. They keep their feet touching for the remainder of the press conference.
***
June 2011 – MLH Awards
It’s not that he’s expecting to win. He’s got decent chances, but he knows from the start that it’s a laser thin distance between him and Hollander. It still stings.
The whole year has been a dream. He’s felt like he was on top of the world for most of the it –doing what he does best and winning along the way, being free. A few dips here and there, they didn’t take the cup after all, but still...
But now the year is over, and he needs to go back to Russia. Where he’ll have to deal with his father’s strange behaviour and forgetfulness, his brother’s constant demands for money, a dozen relatives that have recently remembered that he exists. All the while being treated like he’s…
So yes, he dreamed of winning the Rookie of the Year reward and then potentially sneaking off to Hollander’s hotel room to brag about it. Even if the Mr Boring and Cautious still didn’t let Ilya fuck tonight, with so many other hockey players around, it’d have been nice. It’d have tied him over for the summer.
But that didn’t happen. And now he’s feeling sad and angry and like he wants to crawl out of his skin. So, he hides on a rooftop, lights a cigarette and tortures himself with scenarios of how his father is going to react to his loss. “Podpolkovnik” might get confused every now and then, but he never forgets Ilya’s failures
And that’s where Shane fucking Hollander finds him…
It’s funny to see Hollander drunk, red in the face and unsteady on his feet. Despite his own gloominess, looking at him makes Ilya soften, filling him with a strange kind of desire. Not for sex; for something intangible that he can’t quite find a word for.
“Good for you” Ilya says a bit sarcastically, even though he means it “Big night for you”
“It could have gone to either one of us” Hollander says. It’s a kind thing to say, a sportsmanship thing to say and it pisses Ilya off a little.
“It went to you” he replied tightly, unable to keep bitterness out of his words. “Could have” is exactly the type of excuse that would make Ilya’s father launch into a long lecture about personal responsibility.
And maybe drunk Hollander has less than perfect control, because this time he rises to the bait. Throws words around, accuses Ilya of being jealous.
“Not everything is about you, Hollander!” Ilya snaps, all the pressure and sadness just blowing out of him. Why does everyone always expect the worst of him?
Instead of shouting back, Hollander retreats.
“So, what is it then?!” he sounds annoyed, but genuine; almost like he really wants to understand what’s happening inside Ilya’s head.
Somehow this feels worse, feels dangerous and Ilya explodes “What the fuck do you want, Hollander?!”
After his tirade, he expects Hollander to tell him to fuck off and leave, but he doesn’t. He just stands some distance away, leaning against the railing, looking lost and sad himself.
Remorse eats at Ilya. It’s Hollander’s night and he has sought Ilya out, has been kind to him, has looked like ....
“I go home in three days” he tries to explain
“Ok” Hollander turns to him “Must be nice?” he says uncertainly, somewhere between a statement and a question.
Ilya can’t help a feeling of betrayal that surges from somewhere inside him. This whole year, maybe longer… ever since the draft really… he felt strangely connected to Shane Hollander. Like despite all their differences, sharing that spot on the top of the mountain united them somehow, made them see each other.
But, of course, it’s not true, Ilya thinks bitterly, as her turns to look at the dark-haired man next to him.
Shane Hollander, a nice Canadian boy, raised by nice parents in a nice environment. What would he know about how fucking scary and depressing “home” can be?
Ilya sighs, clenches his jaw, tries to get some sense of control over himself. He feels so completely achingly alone.
What the fuck has he been doing? Ilya berates himself. What the fuck he was thinking, playing at this thing between them, jerking off to memories of Hollander’s mouth around his cock, thinking about the way his freckles look underneath the visor during the play off…What the fuck was his thinking, wanting to explain himself to Hollander, his rival and occasional fuck buddy; yearning to be unmade and put together by his kindness, gentleness, softness.
“And I guess I thought maybe we could…” Hollander starts hesitantly, loses his nerve quickly upon seeing Ilya’s lack of reaction.
If only he fucking knew how fucking hard it is to resist him. And in the end, Ilya fails at that too.
He sees Hollander’s outstretched hand and, despite all of that misunderstanding that happened between them tonight, it feels like a lifeline. Something to hold onto before the ugly tide of Russia, home, family drags him away.
Ilya stumbles forward, grabs at the hand and pushes Hollander against the wall. For a moment – their mouths together, Shane’s hands on his face, clutching at his hair - everything feels right, everything makes absolute sense.
Until it doesn’t. Until he is once again standing alone on the roof. It’s a day for failures and he fucked this moment between them up too.
Now, watching Hollander disappear he wishes he didn’t.
He wishes… He wishes for many things, mostly things he can never have.
.
***
Jan 2014 – Russia
Sochi feels like hell.
Ilya knows it’s not going to go well from the start.
Olympic Games are every athlete’s dream. Few athletes get a chance to participate in one being held in their home country. It’s supposed to feel amazing – competing in the place that you love where everyone cheers for you and your family can support you.
All Ilya feels is dread.
Russia doesn’t even feel like home anymore. It’s not so terrible in the summers when he can distract himself with partying with Svetlana all around Moscow. But coming back in February for the first time in many years feels as he’
The press does cheer for him, but it comes at the price. Russia has collected an all-star national hockey team, and big stars come with big egos. He’s already believed to be too young to be a captain, and every piece of media attention comes with harsh criticism from his teammates’ fans.
And his family…
His father is going to be there, of course. Thankfully, the medication prescribed to him seems to be doing a decent job at staving off the symptoms. The memory lapses are barely noticeable, so Grigori can don his uniform and mesh with politicians and Olympic officials, just like in the old times before his retirement.
Ilya knows what his father’s expectations are. Gold medal. Strong leadership. Perfect image. Everything to showcase how great Russia is. It’s not Ilya that he’s cheering on. It’s what Ilya’s victory would mean to him and his own reputation.
He’s stopped counting on Alexey to cheer him on long time ago.
One thing he’s relying on in this whole mess is hockey. Hockey has never failed him and he’s confident in his skill. He’s playing better now that he’s ever played before.
He needs to win because failing Russia is not an option. And he wants to win. He’s good at winning.
But not this time. This time he loses a devastating shitshow game to Latvia.
He knows it’s not entirely his fault – he’s done his best, but their goalie is hurt, the team hasn’t clicked properly, and the coaches made things worse with all the pressure; Latvians are miles better than then they expected.
It still feels like his world has ended when he steps off the ice.
The next morning is not any better. He tries to go through the motions of waking up, eating breakfast, getting dressed, but he can only do it because he’s sort of not there. He exists somewhere outside of his body. He feels himself disintegrating, like parts of them are being chipped off and blown away.
He forces himself back into his body, banishes everything but body functions away. As long as he manages to maintain that perfect control, he’ll survive.
He’s been steadily ignoring everyone. His father, his brother, his former coach, media. Even Svetlana who sends him “I’m so sorry. I’ll see you tonight” text.
When a different name pops up on the screen, Ilya freezes. His finger hovers over the message before he finally clicks on it.
Jane: Hey! U doing ok?
He closes the message immediately, without replying. He can’t deal with Hollander right now. Hollander means emotions, sensations, wants and Ilya can’t do any of those if he wants to stay standing.
As if to subconsciously torture himself or maybe because he hopes it’s the last place anyone would look for him at, he wonders back to the rink in the afternoon. The figure skating competition is on. He knows fuck all about figure skating, but he remembers that his mom used to like it. The thought steers something inside him, but he promptly stomps it out. The stalls are crowded, but he finds a quite space in the rafters and leans against one of the beams. The metal is cold and hard against his side, but it helps to keep him grounded.
Alexey texts: “Where the fuck are you? Dad’s furious with you”.
As if Ilya doesn’t know. As if Ilya hasn’t been psyching himself for the inevitable meeting. Ironically, he’s father just arrived at Sochi this morning. He’s missed the last night shitshow because he didn’t think that a game with Latvia would be important enough. Now, he’s got lots to say to his failure of a son. Ilya has heard all of it before, of course. He’s failed his father before, if never this devastatingly. He knows what’s coming and he knows he’ll survive it. Probably…
It’s in the rafters that Hollander finds him.
Ilya feels him approach and forces himself not to turn. Seeing Hollander is the last thing he wants right now.
“Hey” Hollander greets him lightly. Like they are friends.
Ilya chances a glance at the other man and regrets it immediately. Hollander looks… He looks good. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his hair a bit messy and Ilya can see the devastating arch of his neck where Hollander’s Canada themed fleece is open. His eyes are open and the look directly at Ilya for once. He looks like…
He looks like home.
Ilya forces himself to turn away.
“Not here” He grits, meaning “go away”, meaning “it’s not safe”, meaning “you don’t belong here”.
“No, I’m not… Hollander looks taken aback at his reaction “I saw you up here. I wanted to see how you are doing”
The kind concern punches through Ilya like a puck slap shot.
He’s spent the last few hours avoiding thinking about Shane’s text. About how it’s the first time somebody asked him that since yesterday. Or how a tiny part of him has desperately wanted to text back, ask Hollander if he could …
He just can’t. Not if he was to survive today and tomorrow and every day until his loss is forgotten. Which might be never.
“Fine. Go sit down” he grits his jaw and orders (or begs? He doesn’t quite know himself)
“We…”
“We are not anything” Ilya cuts him off, even though he’s not sure what Hollander wanted to say. In the corner of his eyes, he sees hurt spreading on Shane’s face and drives the point home “Go away, Hollander”
Hollander doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong in this part of Ilya’s world where Ilya’s family is looking to rip him apart and his country is blaming him for the loss and where what they are, who they are to each other, is fucking dangerous.
Instead of listening, Hollander – the most stubborn boring hockey player in the world - steps towards him, opening his arms wider. His face turns from hurt to concerned, which so much worse.
“Are you OK?” he asks shakily
“Please” this time Ilya does beg “Go away”
Please, stop being kind to me. I’m not going to survive this if you are kind to me. You are killing me.
“You didn’t answer my text” Hollander remarks as if it’s evidence of something. Maybe it is. It’s been years since Ilya ignored a text from him.
Ordering and begging didn’t work, so Ilya turns around to face him and let’s his anger do the job.
“No, I didn’t answer your boring text” he throws “Now will you go?”
And finally, Hollander does: “Fine. Fuck” Somewhere in the background the crowd applauds.
Ilya can’t help but turn around and watch him disappear into the stands. He felt like he was dying when Shane stood next to him a minute ago. Now he feels even worse.
Later that night, after rejecting Sasha, he opens Hollander’s text and reads it again, tasting the feel of the kind concern in this mouth. He wants to reply. He wants to… He wants many-many things. Most of them he’s never going to get. But if Svetlana’s right and he has a chance at the Cup this year, he definitely wants that. And in order get there, he needs to survive.
He puts away the phone, text still unanswered.