Chapter Text
Seattle in late October was all gray skies and relentless drizzle, the kind that soaked through hoodies and made everyone hunch their shoulders like they were carrying invisible weights. Shane Hollander, 21 and already the youngest captain in Montreal Voyageurs history, had exactly forty-eight hours of mandated "rest" before he had to fly back for a road trip. The team’s sports psych had insisted he get out of the hotel, breathe non-arena air, do something normal. So here he was: hood up, earbuds in (playing smooth jazz because hype music made him too jittery off-ice), wandering Pike Place Market like a tourist who’d forgotten how umbrellas worked.
Shane looked younger than his age—always had. Big hazel eyes that went wide at the smallest things, freckles dusting his nose even in winter, and a smile so unguarded it made strangers smile back without knowing why. He still got starstruck by street performers, still said “sorry” when someone else bumped into him, still carried a tiny sketchbook in his jacket pocket for when the world got too loud. On the ice he was lethal—quick release, hockey IQ off the charts, the polite Canadian kid who thanked refs after penalties—but off it? He was basically a golden retriever in human form: eager, loyal, a little clumsy, endlessly enthusiastic about things most people took for granted.
He ducked into the first coffee shop he saw—a narrow place called “Bean & Leaf” with fogged windows and mismatched chairs. The bell jingled softly. Warmth hit him like a hug; the smell of fresh espresso and cinnamon rolls made his stomach growl. He ordered a large chai latte (extra cinnamon, because why not) and found a corner table near the window, shrugging off his damp hoodie. Underneath was a plain gray long-sleeve that clung slightly from the rain, showing the long, lean lines of an athlete who lived in the gym even during off-days.
Shane pulled out his phone, scrolled through team group chat memes for thirty seconds, then set it face-down. He stared out at the rain instead, chin in hand, looking quietly content just to exist for a minute.
Across the room, Ilya Rozanov watched him.
Ilya was 30, broad in the shoulders the way men get when they’ve spent years lifting heavy things for a living, but softer around the edges now—less sharp definition, more comfortable solidity. Light brown curls still thick and fluffy, blue eyes that missed nothing, and a low, calm voice that could talk someone off a ledge or into therapy without them realizing it. He’d walked away from professional hockey at 24 after a string of concussions made the risk-reward math no longer add up. No dramatic retirement presser; he’d just quietly transitioned into sports psychology consulting. Now he worked with elite athletes—mostly hockey players, ironically—helping them untangle performance anxiety, identity crises, burnout. He was good at it. Patient. Gentle when he needed to be, direct when he didn’t. People called him a “DILF without the D” behind his back; he pretended not to hear it.
He’d come to Seattle for a two-day workshop at the university, speaking on emotional regulation under pressure. The session had ended early; he’d wandered downtown to kill time before his flight tomorrow. The coffee shop was quiet enough for reading. He had a book open (The Body Keeps the Score) and half a black Americano gone cold.
Then Shane walked in.
Ilya noticed him immediately—not because he recognized the face (though he probably should have; Shane’s rookie card was still on fridge magnets across Canada), but because of the energy. The kid radiated this bright, unfiltered openness. He shook rain off his sleeves like a puppy after a bath, thanked the barista three times, tripped slightly over a chair leg and laughed at himself instead of cursing. When he sat, he didn’t scroll mindlessly; he just… looked out the window, content. Peaceful. Like the world hadn’t yet taught him to armor up.
Ilya felt something shift in his chest—soft, curious, protective. He closed the book.
After ten minutes of stolen glances (Shane oblivious, sipping his chai and humming faintly to whatever was in his earbuds), Ilya made a decision. He stood, picked up his coffee, and crossed the room.
“Mind if I join you?” His voice was low, accented just enough to warm the edges of the words. Russian roots, softened by years in North America. “Every other seat is taken, and you look like you could use company that isn’t a phone.”
Shane startled, yanking out an earbud. His eyes went wide—puppy-wide—then crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Oh! Uh—yeah, sure. Please.” He gestured to the empty chair like he was inviting royalty. “I’m Shane.”
“Ilya.” He sat, long legs folding easily under the small table. Up close, he could see the faint flush on Shane’s cheeks from the cold outside, the way his lashes caught the warm overhead light. Adorable didn’t cover it. “You’re not from here.”
Shane laughed softly, self-conscious. “Is it obvious?”
“You’re looking at everything like it’s the first time you’ve seen rain.” Ilya’s mouth curved—just a little. Not teasing. Fond.
Shane ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t get out much during the season. Hotel, rink, plane. Repeat. This is… nice.”
Ilya tilted his head, studying him openly now. “What do you do when you’re not looking at rain like it’s art?”
Shane smiled softly then hesitated—classic athlete reflex, always weighing how much to reveal. Then he shrugged, deciding to be honest because why not? “I play hockey. For Montreal.”
Ilya didn’t react like most people would—no sudden starstruck grin, no “Holy shit, you’re that Shane Hollander guy!” He just nodded slowly, like he was filing the information away carefully.
“That explains the shoulders,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the way you walk like you’re ready to pivot at any second.”
Shane blinked. “You… know hockey?”
“Mhm. Used to play. Around six years ago.” Ilya took a sip of cold coffee, unbothered. “Now I help people who still do. Mental side of it.”
Shane’s eyes lit up—genuine interest, no filter. “Like a sports psych?”
“Close enough. More like… someone who listens when they’re too tired to talk to anyone else.”
Shane leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, completely engaged. “That’s really cool. I’ve seen a couple. They’re nice, but sometimes it feels like they’re reading from a script. You seem…” He paused, searching for the word. “Real.”
Ilya felt that soft tug again, stronger this time. “Thank you.”
They talked.
Not about hockey stats or trades or the endless grind—not at first. Shane told Ilya about the street musician he’d tipped too much because the guy played “Clair de Lune” on a beat-up violin. Ilya told Shane about the time he accidentally adopted a stray cat somewhere during a tournament and smuggled it back to Boston in his equipment bag. Shane laughed so hard he nearly spilled his chai; Ilya watched the sound leave his throat like it was something precious.
An hour passed. Then another. The rain kept falling. Neither checked their phone.
Eventually Shane glanced at his watch and winced. “Shoot. I have a team dinner thing in like… forty minutes.” He looked genuinely disappointed. “I don’t wanna go.”
Ilya smiled—small, warm. “Then don’t disappear on me.” He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and slid it across the table. “Put your number in.”
Shane stared at the phone like it was a winning lottery ticket. Then he typed carefully, adding a little hockey stick emoji next to his name because of course he did. When he slid it back, their fingers brushed—just barely. Shane’s cheeks went pink again.
“I’ll text you,” Ilya said quietly. Not a question. A promise.
Shane stood, slinging his hoodie back on. “Okay! I’m—I’m really glad we talked.”
“Me too, Shane.”
Shane lingered for a second, rocking on his heels like he didn’t want to leave. Then he gave one last bright, shy smile and slipped out into the rain.
Ilya watched him go—hood up, shoulders hunched against the wet, but still walking with that hopeful bounce.
He waited exactly seven minutes before pulling out his phone.
Ilya: Have you made it back to the hotel fine? Without drowning preferably?
A reply popped up almost instantly.
Shane 🏒: Haha barely!! Thank you for the company. Seriously. Made my whole day.
Ilya exhaled slowly, thumb hovering.
Ilya: Good. Let’s make tomorrow better too. Coffee? Or something warmer if it’s still pouring.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Shane 🏒: I’d really like that! <3
Ilya leaned back in the chair, smiling to himself in the quiet coffee shop.
Yeah. This was going to be something.