Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was not one to get homesick.
He had spent much of his childhood traveling around Canada and the US for hockey, and it was not an anomaly for him to be out of Ottawa and in a strange city where he knew no one except his team, whoever they may be at the time.
Shane was used to hopping from team to team, whether it was playing for his school or for a club, getting traded constantly to fill in wherever they needed a star player.
It was not unusual for Shane to be surrounded by strangers, and it was not unusual for Shane to be alone.
But something felt different when he got off the plane. Stepping out of the airport, the air was thick with a flavor of cold he wasn’t used to, stiff with something foreign to him. The people seemed colder too as they shuffled by him, suitcases unwieldy as they pushed Shane with little awareness or acknowledgement. The bus driver barely nodded at him when he got on, and no one offered to help him wrangle his hockey gear into the bag area. It was not as if Shane was particularly bubbly himself, nor did he need the help. But he was used to the offer of a smile, the attempt at politeness, however forced it tended to be.
Welcome to Boston. He thought to himself.
A sigh escaped him as he fell into his seat, exhausted from travel and anxious from the change in his routine. He didn’t have time to hit the gym this morning before his flight, and the price he paid manifested in the stiffness he felt in his muscles and fog in his brain. He had packed his typical travel sneakers in favor of wearing his bulkier boots to save space, and the heel was bunched up and digging into his skin. They didn’t have the coffee he liked at his terminal, and the alternative he forced down left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. Not dissimilar to every Bostonian interaction he was having so far. When he asked the information desk how to find the bus that would take him to the facility, they had scowled and muttered something about Google.
Luckily, no one was sitting down next to him as people shuffled on. A fortunate side effect of American rudeness would be the lack of small talk he would have to endure on the ride to the rink. If someone did end up as his seat mate, they would surely ignore each other.
It had mostly filled up at this point, so relief flooded Shane when the doors began to close. But just as the bus began to peel out of the terminal, it stuttered, and opened its doors. Shane slumped into his seat, resting his head on his forearms on the tray table in front of him. Great.
Of course, the only spot left was right next to him, and of course the person who got on the bus plopped down next to him, and of course, when he finally allowed himself a glance over, it was an extremely good looking boy his age. Great.
Please don’t talk to me. Shane thought as he buried his head in his arms. He was already overstimulated and exhausted, an evil pairing that made him extremely prone to neglecting his manners, and the last thing he wanted was to entertain a handsome stranger who already was making him insecure. For no reason.
“Hey.”
Shane decided to pretend like he hadn’t heard. He was wearing headphones after all. The guy didn’t have to know that nothing was playing through them.
“Hey.” He was more insistent this time.
Shane removed one of the earbuds and turned to look at him. “Hi?”
“Can you scooch over? I have no room here.”
Shane couldn’t place the accent, but it was breathy at the edges and thick in the middle. Slavic, maybe. Whatever it was, it made the words seem harsher than they were. Shane immediately felt flustered.
“Yeah. Sorry.” He slid to the side, pushing up his tray table.
The guy looked at him blankly and dropped his eyes to Shane’s backpack which was spilling over into his area.
“Sorry.” Shane yanked at the handle and shoved it into the corner.
The guy faced forward and shook his head slightly. “Americans…” It was under his breath, but Shane heard it.
“I’m Canadian. So.” Shane retorted without thinking.
The guy snorted. “Same different.”
“It’s ‘same difference.’”
The boy fully turned to glare at him. Was that rude? Shane wasn’t sure. Correcting a stranger’s English was certainly not necessary, but Shane never minded when people corrected his French. He wanted to be right. Didn’t this guy want to be right? Something about him made Shane want to correct him for selfish reasons, though. He pushed that sentiment down. He had met him two minutes ago. Who cared?
Shane forced himself to meet his eyes for one second. They were blue as all hell. It struck him immediately. And his hair was perfect—dusty blonde curls in precise ringlets formed around his scalp. He was complete with a strong jaw and broad shoulders. He could tell they were the same age by the way he held himself, but Shane felt like a kid next to him.
Neither of them spoke again the rest of the ride. When the bus stopped at Canal St and they both stood up, Shane felt something course through him. Probably just fear that they were headed to the same place.
When they reached the front, Shane went to grab his hockey bag, but the boy stopped him. “Uh, that’s mine.”
His eyes shifted to an identical bag to the left where he had actually put his. It was the same brand, color, and everything. Shane grabbed the correct bag and slung it over his shoulder. The guy did the same with his.
“Don’t tell me—” Shane started.
“You’re going to IHA.” The other boy breathed.
Another player. He should have known. A seemingly Russian kid his age on the same bus from the airport? And it was written all over his face. The competitive smirk he sported was something Shane was used to seeing from hockey players, a confidence that came with the territory.
Shane opened his mouth to say something else, but the guy was already out the door, moving ahead of him down the street to the facility’s entrance.
Welcome to IHA. Shane thought. And for once, he missed home.
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Admittance to the International Hockey Academy was an aspirational goal for all young hockey players around the world, including Ilya Rozanov, despite the almost guarantee that he would make it in. He was the best player he had ever met, and it was no surprise that they wanted him for the class of 2009. The academy was specifically designed to wrangle all the top Olympic prospects after they graduated high school before they started their collegiate careers. It was a place for the top coaches to hone the skills of the best athletes, with a secondary goal of familiarizing the players with each other. And it wasn’t just about the NHL, but the best in the academy were always the top drafted players for the league, with many international players moving from their home countries to play in Canada and the US. Ilya had no doubt he would be one of them.
He liked Boston so far. It lacked…bullshit. People were straightforward. They wore on their face how they felt about you. It kind of reminded him of home.
As he walked into the IHA facility he had to steal a glance back at the guy he had met on the bus, a frustratingly cute Canadian with dark hair and eyes that seemed to be begging for something when he allowed himself a look. He didn’t seem to want to hold his gaze for a while, but Ilya didn’t mind. Russians didn’t blush, but the rude Canadian might get him close if he stared for too long.
The players had all gathered in the stands, and Ilya looked over the ice hungrily. He half listened to the opening remarks from the program directors as he fantasized about getting his skates on there. It had just been smoothed out, and the way it glistened inspired something in Ilya close to arousal.
But tomorrow would be the first practice. Ilya was one of the later arrivals, and it was already past 11pm, so the directors handed out the room keys and let the boys free.
The dormitories were smaller than what Ilya was used to, and he realized quickly as two boys started entering the same rooms around him that he would not have his own place. Great. He was looking forward to some alone time. Something to decompress after a 14 hour flight and an immediate call from his father after he got off the plane. The program hadn’t even started yet and he had already called to scold him about his laziness. Apparently he had forgotten the good tape at home. неудачник is what he had referred to him as. Failure.
When he arrived at 1410, he flopped down on his bed and sighed, dreading his roommate’s arrival. The shuffle of feet that stopped at the door minutes later alerted him that his peace was over, and when the door opened, he sat himself up to prepare.
And who else could it have been besides the guy from the bus.
He watched the boy’s shoulders drop at the recognition.
“Oh.” He said simply. A man of few words.
Ilya threw his head back and laughed. “You again? Wow, day keeps getting better.”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya smiled. He could already tell he was going to enjoy getting under his skin.
But the guy didn’t seem that phased, all things considered. He looked back up at Ilya briefly and sighed, walking over to extend his hand. “Shane Hollander.”
Shane Hollander. Ilya had heard that name before.
“Ilya Rozanov.” He reluctantly took his hand. It was warm and soft, and if he was being delusional he would have thought the contact lingered longer than it needed to.
“Oh,” Shane said. “I’ve heard your name before.”
Ilya cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think my Mom mentioned you coming here. She keeps up with international prospects.”
“Only if they’re good, I assume.” Ilya could not resist the urge to wink. And then it seemed Hollander could not resist the urge to blush. “Did she say I was good?”
“She said you were cocky. She’s seen your interviews.”
“Ah.” Ilya nodded his head, grinning. “Have you seen my interviews?”
“What? No.” Shane stammered.
“Have you seen me play?”
“No.”
“Good. You will get good show tomorrow. See what your Mom likes about me.”
Ilya had gotten close to Shane in the process of his taunting––something he hadn’t done with any particular intention, but a decision he was content with as his eyes flickered down to watch Shane swallow hard. He noticed Shane’s hands balling into fists at his sides. Ilya smirked. This was fun.
He turned to flop back down on his bed, putting his hands behind his head and gazing up at Shane who stood remarkably still, biting his lip.
“I wake up early to run. Will that bother you?”
“No. I’ll be up.”
“Great. See you then.”
“Great.”
“Wonderful.”
They got ready for bed in relative silence, Ilya ignoring the pang of disappointment in his chest when Shane disappeared into the en suite to change. Something buried in him wanted to see him…vulnerable. Just as an experiment. Nothing more.
He shrugged the feeling off. He would have plenty of opportunities to see that on the ice.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Shane was grumpy during warm up laps. He had forgotten his good tape at home and had to borrow some from a reluctant Floridian who he spotted with his favorite brand. Plus, Ilya had woken up at four to go on his run, earlier than Shane was planning on hitting the gym. He turned on the light and stomped around the room, and Shane had to drag himself out of bed so as not to give off the impression that Ilya was one-upping him. He did say he’d be up. Ilya didn’t have to know it was going to be later.
And then they were scrimmaging, and Shane in a bad mood was always a little off his game, which didn’t help improve the mood in turn. Some players were spurred by edges in their temper, but Shane preferred to be content in his gameplay. A level of peace and assurance did a lot to keep him focused. But he was tired and cranky, and it manifested itself in sloppiness.
Ilya was picked for the opposing team, maybe not intentionally but probably wisely. Shane discovered quickly that they were the best players there, and pretty evenly matched. If they had been on the same team, the others wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Part of him was ecstatic at having someone who met his skill level. Shane had grown bored of beating whoever he faced off with, slipping past all the players and effortlessly scoring, especially in his school games. It should have been refreshing to meet his match. But the other part of him was pissed that Ilya’s arrogance was earned. He wanted to see him falter when he witnessed Shane’s capabilities, but his cocky grin never wavered the entire game, even as Shane shoved him into the boards.
And boy did he like doing that.
At first it was just part of the game, something that would naturally happen in a heated moment near the walls. A check was a check, and this was hockey. But the way Shane felt when it happened––the feeling of contact against his gear, the hard line of Ilya’s body against his own, the spark on impact. It was a bit addicting.
So Shane did it again. And again.
Maybe it was an attempt to knock him down a peg. To see if it would throw him off. To show Shane wasn’t messing around. It was one thing for him to score against Ilya. But it was another thing to pin him against something despite his smaller frame. He was not to be messed with, and he wanted Ilya to know that.
But it was messing with Shane that Ilya wouldn’t stop smiling. The glint in his eye was unmistakable after every check. It was pissing him off. More than he was already pissed off.
After a particularly rough hit, the coach blew the whistle and extended his arm. “Penalty box, Hollander. Knock it off.”
Shane’s face warmed. He deliberately avoided looking at Ilya who was surely sporting a larger-than-average grin. Shane fell onto the bench and let his head hang between his knees. He was breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through him. He was still playing well, all things considered. The game’s intensity was just getting to him. He looked up and saw Ilya pass by like a breeze, almost missing the wink he threw at him. God, that pissed him off even more. Surely he would score on their team now without Shane there. They would lose the scrimmage. Shane would look unnecessarily aggressive, and Ilya would look cool under pressure. Was this part of some plan Rozanov had cooked up? Get under his skin last night and this morning, forcing Shane to take it out on him on the ice? Just to make him look bad? Oh, he was pissed now.
When Shane got back on the ice, it was for a face off. Of course, Rozanov was opposite him.
“Enjoy your time-out?”
“Fuck off.”
“You seem angry. Don’t worry, you can still catch up.”
Shane didn’t respond.
“Maybe if you hit puck like you hit me, you could win.”
Shane took that to heart. When the puck dropped, he hit it hard, carrying it down the ice and swiftly scoring on the panicked goalie. He turned around to see Rozanov raise an eyebrow at him. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and something stirred in Shane at that. The acknowledgement of his game. That’s what he wanted, he supposed. So why did he still want to shove Ilya into something?
They were tied going into the last period. The pressure felt on, in a way that Shane would have not expected from their first scrimmage. Sure, he was trying to impress the coaches. But he knew that would happen regardless. Clearly something about being opposite Ilya Rozanov was rousing a fire in Shane. And as the clock counted down, it seemed Shane was bringing the same thing out of Ilya.
Every time Shane had possession of the puck, Ilya would get it from him. And then Shane would get it back. At one point, it seemed no one else was bothering to play anymore. A couple of his teammates were standing around the edges, glaring at them as they fought back and forth. Shane wasn’t the only one who was getting pissed off.
Ilya scored in the last second, and then they were done. Shane was livid at this point. He had played hard, harder than he had allowed himself in a minute. And he still lost. He huffed his way off the ice, ignoring Ilya’s eyes on him. But he caught up to him anyway as he made his way to the locker room.
“Nice game, Hollander. You really put up a good fight.”
Shane said nothing.
“Maybe you wish your mother showed you some clips. Could have made…strategy against me.”
Shane turned on his heel. “Maybe your mother should have taught you some manners.”
For the first time, Ilya’s smile dropped. And then he was on him.
Finally. Shane thought. A reaction.
Ilya had sent them fully horizontal, grappling at Shane through his gear, pulling at his jersey and hair. Shane made a painstaking effort to not enjoy the returned contact. The reciprocated touch. He was using most of his energy to shove down the warmth building in his abdomen at the weight above him, leaving almost nothing to fight back.
“Get off of me.” Shane said without much passion, shoving. But with Rozanov on top, he didn’t have much leverage against the bigger boy.
“No.” Ilya shot back.
Someone yanked him off eventually. They both stood, fixing themselves and their uniforms. Rozanov looked at him with something wild in his eye. Then he did something Shane was certainly not expecting. He spat in his face.
“Don’t talk about my mother again.” Ilya said.
The spit had landed right near Shane’s mouth. When he went to speak, he could feel it on his lips.
“I won’t.” He said. And he meant it. Maybe he wanted to push Ilya’s buttons, but it seemed he had gone too far.
In a twisted apology, he kept his eyes on Ilya’s as he licked his lips, catching any of the spit there. Ilya’s gaze was now glued to his mouth. He watched him swallow.
Whatever Shane was doing, it was working. He might have lost the game, but he was winning the war.