Chapter Text
Draft Day
Ilya Rozanov was leaning against the outside of the convention center, smoking, when Shane went up to him and offered his hand. Shane's parents had urged Shane to introduce himself to the guy he would be vying for the number one spot with today. David and Yuna Hollander were very big on sportsmanship and manners.
The entry draft was being held in Montreal, which was good news for Shane, since it was only a short drive from Ottawa. And because Shane secretly hoped that his favorite team since childhood, the Canadiens, would select him here in their own city. It was their 100th anniversary as a team this year, too. Shane wasn't superstitious, but this just felt right. And if he was the number one draft pick, all the better.
The only person standing in his way was the guy staring down at Shane's hand like he was afraid it might be contaminated. But finally, Rozanov shook it—thankfully with the hand that wasn't holding a cigarette. He had a firm grip. His eyes were intense. This was Shane's rival.
Rozanov was a tall, muscular Russian with golden curls and a handsome face. He had dominated the Russian Junior League for several years. Shane had never met him before, but he knew all about him. He'd watched his games online and admired the way he could put all his power behind the puck and sling it into the net effortlessly. There had been speculation for months on whether Shane or Rozanov would be drafted first and which teams they would go to. There was no question that they would be drafted first and second, it was just a matter of who got which spot.
Rozanov was an impressive player, but personality-wise, Shane had heard he was a bit of an asshole. He was cold and aloof in interviews, but he also had a temper on the ice, and constantly smirked and made self-satisfied little jokes. In Russian, at least. Shane wondered how good his English was.
"Is this your first time in Canada?" Shane asked him. It was a long way to come from Moscow, where he knew Rozanov lived.
Rozanov shook his head. "Have been to Toronto before." His English seemed all right, but his accent was very strong.
"Do you like it?"
He shrugged. "Is fine. But I want to go to America."
"Oh." Shane didn't know what else to say. They stood there awkwardly. Rozanov took a drag of his cigarette. Shane crinkled his nose at the smell. Rozanov shouldn't have been smoking—it would ruin his lungs and then he'd be panting on the ice all the time. Not to mention the dangers of nicotine addiction and how that could affect performance.
Shane's parents had told him to say hi to Rozanov, but they hadn't told him what he should talk about with him.
Like always, Shane fell back on hockey.
"Who do you think will be the third pick?" he asked. Because there would be someone else posing with them in all the pictures, holding up three fingers while Shane held up one and Rozanov held up two—hopefully.
"Caleb Sullivan," said Rozanov. There was no doubt in his voice.
"Really? I think it might be Anders Berglund."
"No. Sullivan."
He turned out to be right. Caleb Sullivan, a lanky redhead from Texas, got drafted by Phoenix as the third pick. Shane sat anxiously in his chair in the front row of the auditorium beside his parents as he watched Sullivan walk to the stage and collect his blue jersey, smiling. What came next would change Shane's life forever, he knew. The only people left in the auditorium without jerseys of their own were, expectedly, Shane and Rozanov. If Shane leaned out of his chair and looked over to his right, he could see his opponent sitting at the other end of the front row with his parents and a guy who was probably his brother, based on how much they looked alike. But Shane tried not to look. It just made him more nervous. And he didn't want to see what smug expression Rozanov was wearing.
The presenter returned to the podium to announce the second selection. Shane felt like he was seeing everything in slow motion as he watched the NHL official adjust the mic and straighten the paper in front of him. His heart was racing as Shane waited for him to open his mouth and announce which team Rozanov would be playing for.
"The second selection belongs to the Montreal Canadiens."
The Canadiens? Fuck. Shane didn't want Rozanov playing for the Canadiens. And Rozanov didn't even want to play in Canada. His mind was so turbulent that Shane didn't even hear the other things the presenter said.
Until he called Shane's name.
Mixed emotions flooded Shane. He'd just been selected by the Montreal Canadiens, his favorite team in the world. He was going to be following in the footsteps of Jean Béliveau and Larry Robinson and all his childhood heroes, and playing alongside some of the best people in the world. But he was second. Not first. And that meant he hadn't won. Ilya Rozanov had beaten him.
Shane's mind was still reeling as his dad grabbed his shoulder and his mom looked at him with tears in her eyes and Shane awkwardly walked past a bunch of people clapping and cheering on his way to the stage. Then the NHL official was smiling at him and telling him "Good job" and "Welcome to the team" and placing a red and blue jersey in his hands with his name and number on it—Hollander, 24.
Only then did it begin to sink in for Shane. He found himself grinning as the bright lights of a hundred cameras flashed around him.
He was still smiling down at his jersey as he walked off the stage to join Sullivan in the wings and the presenter came back on stage to announce the first pick. This time, it wasn't the name that caught Shane's attention but the team—the first pick belonged to the Boston Bruins, the Canadiens' fiercest rival.
Shane watched with trepidation as Rozanov walked up the long aisle to the stage. He had a tiny smirk on his face, but it disappeared the moment he shook the presenter's hand. He was straight-faced and serious when it came time to hold up his yellow and black jersey to the cameras—Rozanov, 81.
Shane was going to Montreal and Rozanov was going to Boston. The flames of their burgeoning rivalry had been fanned. New rookies were being piled onto a very old competition. The NHL must have had a lot of fun setting this one up.
Rozanov came off the stage and stood next to Shane, similarly smiling down at his jersey. Shane didn't even have a chance to look him in the eye before people were crowding them with cameras again and asking the three of them to take their positions for the famous photo of the top three draft picks that was replicated every year. Overwhelmed and blinking, Shane obediently stood on one side of Rozanov, their shoulders brushing, and held up two fingers. The flashes seemed even brighter this time.
After the cameras had retreated, Rozanov turned to Shane with a smirk and asked, "Feels good to be underneath me?"
It was just bad English, Shane knew, but he felt heat rise in his cheeks anyway. So he was an asshole. He had a feeling Rozanov's smirk was really going to get under his skin.
Training
Training for the rookies lasted two weeks. They had all been mixed up and crammed together into teams of 20, who took turns playing against each other. Shane was paired with guys of all abilities—from the 212th draft pick to the 5th—and all shapes and sizes and nationalities. The only other person on his makeshift team from the Canadiens was Hayden Pike, the 103rd draft pick, a guy from Vancouver. He and Shane bunked together and they quickly became friends. It was probably just the proximity that made them friends, because they didn't have that much in common. Pike was stubborn and a little bit grumpy, but they could talk about hockey together and that was all Shane really needed in a friend.
Some of the other guys on his team were nice, too, but they had all been drafted to different teams across North America and Shane knew he'd very rarely see them again. So Pike was kind of his only option. But Shane really didn't mind him.
Shane's team had won over half of their games. It had been pretty easy, honestly. Shane was the best player out of everyone at the camp, after all—except for one person. And they were playing Rozanov's team today. Shane had never played against his rival before. He thought it was a bit of a shame that it had to happen here, in this shabby rink in Traverse City, where there were no onlookers. But maybe it was good that Shane got a feel for Rozanov before he had to play him for real. He didn't want to embarass himself at the first Candiens-Bruins game of the season.
When the actually came around, Shane found himself a little disappointed. He and Rozanov didn't meet much on the ice—Rozanov was playing left wing for some reason, while Shane was playing center, as usual. Shane had trouble getting hold of the puck, it kept going to his teammates instead, and Rozanov seemed to be hanging back. Shane wondered if he did that on purpose, denying Shane the opportunity to learn his playing style. It was a smart move, if so. But still frustrating. Shane had to remind himself that he would have time enough to play Rozanov properly when the season started.
Shane's team ended up winning, but there were no real stakes so it didn't feel like it counted. That didn't stop Hayden from grinning ear-to-ear and tackling Shane with a hug like they'd just won the Stanley Cup. His enthusiasm was infectious, and Shane found himself smiling back, forgetting all about his disappointment at not getting to play against Rozanov.
Hayden chattered on happily as they made their way to the showers in the locker room. Mostly, he talked about the girl he was dating, Jackie. He told Shane he wanted to marry her as soon as possible and have five kids, or maybe ten, and send them to the best schools in Montreal and enroll them all in hockey. He was in a very good mood, not at all like his usual crabby self. Shane figured that it was because he had assisted with one of the goals they scored in the game, something that didn't happen to Hayden very often.
Shane lingered in the shower long after Hayden and the others had gotten out and dried themselves off. He always liked to take long showers. It helped him wind down after a game, and he had some meticulous personal grooming habits. He scrubbed down every inch of his body, even his ankles and behind his ears. He left the shampoo in his hair for a certain amount of time, made sure it had all been rinsed out, and then carefully rubbed the conditioner into the ends, and waited for a while before rinsing that out, too. After having done all that, and alone at last, Shane sighed contentedly and let the warm water soothe him.
Then he heard a cough. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw that Rozanov was still hanging around, too, on the other side of the room. His back was to Shane, but he knew it was him from the golden curls and the broad shoulders, the muscular back.
Rozanov turned around. Unbidden, Shane's eyes fell to his smooth, hairless chest, his defined pecs, his muscled abs... and stopped there.
"You are fast fucking skater. I have seen video before, but is different on ice," said Rozanov.
Shane muttered a "Thanks" and went back to scrubbing his underarms. He didn't really want to be talking to his rival while they were both naked.
Rozanov didn't seem to care, though. "I am angry I was left wing. But I will be center at Boston. Good match-up."
"Yeah," Shane said.
"You do not talk much."
Shane shrugged. He should probably finish up his shower now.
But then, his eyes still locked with Shane's, Rozanov reached down to his crotch, wrapped his hand around his dick, and... Jesus Christ. Rozanov was playing with himself. Pretty vigorously, too. He began to pant.
"What are you doing?" Shane squeaked.
"Getting off," Rozanov said breathlessly.
Shane could see that. "Do you have to do it in front of me?"
"What, are you gay?"
When Rozanov finished, he fell against the wall, breathing heavily as the water streamed down his face, plastering his curls to his forehead. Then he looked at Shane. He nodded at his obvious erection and smiled slightly.
"Little bit."
"Fuck off," Shane said. He shut off the water in his shower and walked out, the heat in his stomach slowly fading. He couldn't believe that had just happened.
Game 1
It was the start of the season and Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were both playing in their first real NHL game—which just so happened to be against each other. The league officials had wanted to create a little drama again. Walking into an arena full of fans who were here to see him, Shane, play center for his favorite team, definitely felt different than walking into the same arena, but empty, as he had for practice. Shane was a little nervous. They were in Montreal, at least. That was good. Shane hoped it would throw Rozanov off his guard a little bit. He hoped the cheering of his own team's fans would help him focus on the task at hand. He didn't want to get distracted by any smirks or insinuations.
When he and Rozanov skated up to the middle of the rink and took their positions for the face off, sure enough, there was a smirk on Rozanov's face and a glitter in his dark eyes.
"Good luck," he said.
Shane ignored him.
When the ref dropped the puck, Shane reached his stick out so fast that he felt a jolt rock his arms. He gained possession of the puck and skated away towards the Bruins' goal as the crowd screamed. He intended to go all the way, he wanted to—God he really wanted to—but a big burly Bruin skated up in front of him and Shane was forced to pass to Ben Gallagher. Who immediately missed.
Shane was so angry he could have screamed at Ben. But that would have got him nowhere. So Shane just shook his head to clear it and skated away to the Montreal end of the ice, hoping he'd get another opportunity to score.
It came towards the end of the period, when a Bruin got knocked to the side and the puck went sliding over to Shane. He took it all the way himself this time and cleared the goalie easily. The wild cheering of the crowd and the sweet taste of triumph made Shane's heart pound and brought a grin to his face. He looked around the rink for Rozanov and grinned even wider when he saw him spit on the ice.
Rozanov paid him back in the next period. Shane stole the puck from Josh Smith and was looking to pass it on to one of his teammates when someone in a black and yellow jersey checked him from behind. They crashed into the boards with a slam. The air went out of Shane and he heard Rozanov grunt, too. As they disentangled themselves, there was a pressure against Shane's crotch, only for an instant, a hand brushing against his cup.
"Do I make you that hard?" Rozanov whispered.
Shane turned around and shoved at his chest. He heard a whistle and immediately put his hands up and stepped back. Shit. Why was he letting Rozanov get to him like this?
Shaking his head, Shane skated as far away from Ilya Rozanov as possible.
Shane scored one more goal that night. But Rozanov scored two. When the buzzer sounded, Boston won. Shane would never be able to live down the fact that Ilya Rozanov had defeated him in his first ever NHL game. But he'd try.
Rookie Awards
Shane and Ilya Rozanov had met two other times during their rookie season. Boston had won, once, and Montreal had won, once. Unfortunately, Rozanov scored more goals than Shane both times. Each time the Bruins and Canadiens met, the crowd buzzed and the ice felt charged. It shifted Shane's entire mindset, and he knew that it shifted Rozanov's, too. Each time they met for a face off and stared each other down, Rozanov's dark eyes sparkled and his grin for once seemed true and not just smug. It was exhilirating playing against him. Everything was faster and became more urgent. Every goal was thrilling, every missed pass devastating. It made Shane a better player, and he thought it made Rozanov better, too. At least, Rozanov had kind of sucked in every other game that season, but when he played Montreal he was frustratingly good. Shane liked the thought that Rozanov really had to put effort into beating Shane. Shane had to work harder than he ever had to beat Rozanov too, but he'd never admit it either. They were alike in that way, Shane supposed.
Now they would be facing off again in the Rookie of the Year awards. It was a different type of competition, to be sure, but Shane wanted it no less badly than he did a win on the ice. There were two other guys in contention aside from Shane and Rozanov, but just like on draft day, everyone knew the only real competition was between them. Shane thought he had a pretty good chance of winning Rookie of the Year, again because Rozanov definitely had not played as well as he could have in his other games this season. He'd even fallen on his face in a game against the Penguins, and afterwards refused to do an after-game interview.
The Rookie Awards were held in Las Vegas, which Shane had never been to before. His parents accompanied him, as they accompanied him to everything. Shane's dad kept going on about spending some time at the casinos, seeing what it was like, which just made his mom roll her eyes. It felt good to have them around, lightly bickering with each other like always. It was familiar and helped calm Shane's nerves. He wasn't really nervous about winning, actually—all the betting sites and hockey channels were saying he would win. He was nervous about the actual ceremony. Shane really didn't want to go to a giant party held at a swanky hotel on the Strip. But he sucked it up and put on his tuxedo and got in the car, telling himself all the while it would be worth it when he went home with the award.
Shane didn't see Rozanov until they had all sat down at their tables in the massive hotel event space where the ceremony was being held and were subject to a million speeches by NHL officials, team owners, coaches, and general managers. Shane was sitting with his parents and some of his teammmates, including Hayden. Rozanov was at the table next to his, sitting with his parents, his brother, and a pretty girl about their age. He was lean and handsome in his tuxedo. But he looked bored as the speeches dragged on. Shane wondered if he knew he wasn't going to win.
Knowing the outcome beforehand took most of the excitement out of it for Shane, too. The ceremony didn't have the same energy as draft day or a Bruins-Canadiens game. When they called Shane's name, applause erupted and his parents hugged him, but he felt oddly numb. When he gave his acceptance speech—pre-rehearsed and written on a piece of paper that had been folded and unfolded a hundred times—he felt no more than he might when giving a pep talk in the locker room before a game.
The aftermath was similarly dull. Overstimulating, but tedious at the same time. It was a massive reception, with waiters weaving in and out of tables and guests laughing and a jazz band playing on the stage. Shane should have felt more animated. But after he had had the exact same conversation fifty times and had to act humble and thankful every time a new person came up to him to say, "Congratulations," he just wanted to get out of here and go to bed. Luckily, his mom and dad had more stamina than he did and took over when Shane could talk and smile no longer.
The one time he chanced a glance over at Rozanov's table, Shane found that his rival was already staring at him. His dark gaze was intense. Shane shifted on his feet. Why was he always staring at him and trying to make him uncomfortable? He remembered that time in the showers during training camp and shuddered.
He forgot about Rozanov until sometime later, when a girl in a silky black dress, plentiful silver jewelry, and her hair done up in careful dark braids approached Shane during a rare break in greeting people.
She smiled prettily at Shane. "Mr. Hollander. I am Svetlana Vetrova. From, ah, the Rozanov delegation." This was the girl he'd seen sitting with Rozanov earlier. He wondered if she was his girlfriend.
"Lovely to meet you," Shane replied. "Your English is very good." It was true. She had only the slightest trace of an accent.
"Yes."
Well, she wasn't modest.
"Much better than your friend's."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes. The problem is that Ilya only ever speaks to the other Russian players. I have told him, again and again, he must speak to the Americans—and the Canadians," she added with another dazzling smile, "but he does not listen. He will talk to Halko, of all people." She looked disgusted. "He is not learning Finnish."
"Maybe he can pick up some French as well, when he's next in Quebec."
"Hmm... but Canadian French is no good. Not to cause offense."
"None taken."
"Well, I came over, Mr. Hollander, just to give you my congratulations. My Ilya has a very strong opponent in you. It is good to have a rivalry, it keeps you motivated. And Ilya has only good things to say about you to me." Her smile was just a touch too knowing. Shane hated to think what that meant.
"Well, I'm sure Mr. Rozanov will be getting one of these soon." He held up the award and smiled back at her, trying to hide his grimace.
She flounced back to Rozanov's table and whispered something in his ear. He looked up, and his eyes met Shane's briefly. Then he looked away.
Shane was only nineteen, not old enough to drink in the States, but no one seemed to care. They kept pushing champagne into his hands and Shane was nervous so he drank it. It only took a few glasses for him to feel it in his head. He didn't really drink very much. He preferred ginger ale, and if it had to be alcohol, beer. In a can. Maybe a bottle.
There were even more well-wishers, endless streams of them. Shane forced himself to smile and nod at them, but the champagne was going to his head and there were too many people and all the chatter in the room, mixed with the jazz band playing in the background, was making his head pound.
At some point, it all became too much. Shane told his mom he needed some air and left to go to the rooftop. But even the elevator was gilded in gold and playing an irritating pop song. When Shane pushed through the door and out onto the empty rooftop, he took in a grateful breath of dry desert air. It was a little cold for June, he thought.
His head slowly began to stop spinning. Shane went out to the railing and looked out over the city. He could see most of the Strip from here. There was the ferris wheel, the fountains at the Bellagio, the miniature Eiffel tower. It was all so ugly. Some of the other players loved Las Vegas—most of them, actually. They loved the bright lights, the revving cars, the casinos and the food and the shows. They loved the girls.
But Shane just missed Montreal. Funny, how he'd only lived there a year and yet had already come to think of it as home. This desert was a far cry from the St. Lawrence River, and the shiny new buildings couldn't be more different from Old Montreal. Shane was looking forward to spending summer there. He spent basically all his time playing hockey, so the only people he knew in the city were his teammates. That would have to change. Somehow. He'd find a way to make friends, surely. And maybe he'd even get a girlfriend. It would probably be smart to.
"You are going to jump when you just won prize?"
Shane spun around. Ilya Rozanov was standing a few feet away in the dim light, half-cloaked in shadows.
"Did you follow me up here?" Shane demanded.
"No. Came to smoke." He pulled a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then walked over to the railing and leaned next to Shane. He offered a cigarette to Shane, but Shane shook his head. He was already drinking when he wasn't supposed to be. He didn't want to ruin his lungs, too.
Rozanov didn't seem to care about that. Shane watched as he held a flame to the end of the cigarette perched in his mouth until it turned red and began to smoke, then inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his mouth for a moment, then looked at Shane and slowly blew it out in his face. Shane batted it away, trying not to cough.
Rozanov grinned at him. Shane hated that grin. It was far too familiar.
"Congratulations, Hollander. I saw your parents with you. They must be proud."
"I saw yours, too. They must be disappointed."
That was kind of a shitty thing to say. Shane regretted it instantly. Rozanov didn't reply, just took another drag of his cigarette. This time, he leaned over the railing and aimed the smoke down at the twinkling lights below. Shane wondered if maybe he was going to jump.
But he just said, "Vegas is ugly city. Do we have to come here next year, too?"
"No. It's just where they have the rookie awards. The Player of the Year awards are in New York."
Rozanov nodded thoughtfully, blew out more smoke. Then Shane realized he had said "we". They were kind of a package deal now, he supposed. This season had only cemented the rivalry that everyone had been encouraging since the day of the draft. It was only to be expected that Rozanov and Hollander would go head-to-head in awards next season as well. Shane didn't know if he could take seeing Rozanov that often. He'd already seen too much of him already.
"New York is good. Pretty girls in New York. Maybe we go clubbing together next year, hmm?" Another smirk.
Maybe it was the alcohol, but Shane finally felt bold. "What the fuck do you want from me?" he asked.
"Want from you?" Rozanov shrugged. "Nothing. I congratulate you on prize. You deserve it. Me, I did not play so well this season. But you?" He flicked his cigarette away and clapped his hands. "Fast like lightning."
Shane looked down. "Thanks," he whispered.
Rozanov grabbed his chin and forced it up. They stared at each other for a long moment. Rozanov's eyes were a dark, rich brown. Shane hadn't ever been close enough to notice before. He had long, thick eyelashes. Then Rozanov leaned in and kissed him. His lips were soft and wet and tasted like cigarettes. He lingered for a long moment. Shane felt a hand grab at his crotch, too.
"I beat you next season," Rozanov whispered. He stepped back, turned away, and was gone.