Chapter Text
There's only one difference between us, Donald.
You want to be normal. You crave it.
That is precisely what tore us apart.
Moving to the USA unveiled a dual, almost savage reality to Ilya. The dazzling opportunity to build a brilliant hockey career was inextricably shadowed by a strange malaise that visited him once or twice a season. The uncharacteristic apathy, the feeling of stiffness, the shortness of breath—things he had never suffered from before—were not new to him.
He stubbornly chalked it up to the hardships of acclimatization or the pleasant exhaustion born of his beloved game. And yet, an inner irritation from this uncertainty slowly gnawed at him from within. Sometimes a headache, dull and persistent, wouldn't leave him for weeks, yielding neither to pharmacy pills nor to desperate attempts to fix his routine—sleeping more, eating right, hoarding precious energy. It all dissolved into emptiness, without visible cause or logic. He couldn't discern a pattern, not understanding where this strange decline came from. The helplessness before his own nature only fueled a deep, constant irritation within him, from which there was no escape.
However, there was also a reverse, frightening side to this coin. For in those very periods of physical decline, he transformed on the ice beyond recognition, becoming not just a player, but a genuine force of nature, a breakthrough tank that had lost all sense of self-preservation and fear. His already notoriously difficult and aggressive style of play during those special weeks reached such intensity that not only his opponents turned against him, but sometimes the very ice rink itself, which he seemed determined to shatter.
He feared neither potential injuries, nor the malice from opponents and their enraged fans. Even his teammates, who usually cheered him on, began to glance at him with awkward apprehension, hinting at his intolerability. But it didn't bother Ilya in the slightest, because in this strange state he acquired a terrifying, absolute clarity where nothing existed but the goal, the puck, and the ice field demanding total annihilation. The fury born of inner weakness became his main and most unreliable weapon.
An even greater downside, which he hadn't fully realized before, was the insurmountable cultural difference and the almost humiliating ignorance of the language hanging over him like a heavy, silent reproach. It imposed not only everyday difficulties but also placed the burden of a new, unfamiliar responsibility on him, demanding a constant effort that sometimes exhausted him more than the most grueling training session. He had to not just manage basic communication; he absolutely needed to be able to express himself on par with others.
Ilya, who passionately desired to keep up with the rapid world of hockey—a world he undoubtedly loved with all his heart—spent sleepless nights and his scarce weekends stubbornly studying this goddamn Queen's English, repeatedly flying into a rage and hating himself for his past carelessness. He reproached himself for limiting himself in school to a pathetic handful of irregular verbs, a vague understanding of "-ing" endings, and the childish knowledge that 'mouse' in plural becomes 'mice'—now these fragments seemed like useless junk to him, incapable of saving him from the shame of incomprehension.
Be that as it may, even disregarding the necessity of communicating with the team (which, to his surprise, had begun to bring him real pleasure), it was vitally important for him to keep up appearances during official interviews and numerous meetings. Back home in Russia, he was known not only for his power play but also for his sharp, precise tongue. Rozanov had repeatedly managed to win space even before stepping onto the ice, demoralizing opponents with a caustic word or a pointed joke. Losing this weapon meant becoming half-hearted, diminished, to him.
That's why Ilya, with reckless obsession, tried to cram all grammatical forms and idiomatic expressions into himself at once, tormenting his ears with endless repetitions and feeling his own throat treacherously refusing to produce unfamiliar sounds. That's also why he was endlessly, almost painfully grateful to that guy from the support staff who found him a worn-out "Happy English" textbook in this fucking Boston—the ridiculous, colorful booklet became a kind of lifebuoy for him.
In all this complex and utterly foreign world, there was one more immutable constant that made him love not just the essence of hockey, but this very league with its special rules, these teams, and this history now being written with his participation. That constant was Shane Hollander, or, more precisely, their escalating rivalry, which had already become legendary after the first season and was accumulating new layers of personal history and almost mythical confrontation with each game.
No matter how much Rozanov tried to hide behind a mask of indifference or feigned severity, he secretly enjoyed immersing himself in this media-created world of their duel. With a special, carefully concealed pleasure, he watched the evening sports shows where his and Hollander's gameplay against each other was dissected down to the smallest details, isolating every action, every choice, building fragile predictions of future clashes upon it—though he didn't understand the overwhelming majority of the commentary, contenting himself only with the hosts' emotions. It warmed him from within, giving everything happening a depth and multidimensionality absent from the simple game. He loved playing against Shane Hollander.
This was the strange allure of this position, for Ilya generally adored being at the very epicenter of attention, feeling the focus of thousands of eyes upon him, but on one condition only—that this attention was shared, that at the center of the narrative there were always both of them, inseparably linked by the bonds of sporting enmity and mutual respect.
Being the object of analysis and discussion alone was empty, uninteresting noise to him. But when it came to him and Hollander, it turned into a kind of spectacle. The rivalry gave him not only sporting motivation but also a sense of belonging to something greater than just a career. To a narrative that excited fans and made him himself look at the game with different eyes, seeing in it not just the fight for the puck, but the continuation of their personal, silent dialogue conducted in the language of strength, speed, and hockey intellect.
And he remembered, too clearly, with painful clarity, that evening after the draft, which was supposed to be a celebration for him but turned into a strange, anxious prologue. For some unclear, self-embarrassing reason, it was in that very year, when he had just been taken into the NHL, that these periodic bouts of malaise began, as if his body was rebelling against the greatest stroke of luck in his life. And it was that night, after an exhausting photoshoot in his new, fresh-fabric-smelling Boston jersey, that he couldn't sleep, feeling as if his whole insides had been turned upside down.
Experiencing either dizziness or a fine, treacherous tremor in his muscles, he didn't think long, instinctively remembering that all these phantom symptoms would fade into the background if he properly, sweat-drenchingly, dealt with physical reality. Learning at the hotel reception where the 24-hour gym was, he rushed there in the pre-dawn silence, eager to quickly part with the gnawing feeling of some critical, suffocating incompleteness. As if the main event was still ahead, and the draft was merely a shadow, not even the first level.
In the almost empty hall, flooded with the cold light of neon lamps, however, he was not alone: at one of the machines sat, focused and in motion, that very Hollander, whom Ilya had already managed, out of sporting habit, to mildly hate. But to a greater extent—to become interested in with hostile curiosity. Shane played differently. Not like everyone else, and Rozanov would never have said it aloud even under torture, but it was indecently beautiful. Far more beautiful than the play of anyone else Ilya knew, remotely or personally.
There was an unbearable grace and calculated fury in the Canadian's game—a perfect blend. In some other, more merciful universe, they would have been placed on the same team, and, as one of Ilya's friends had said over a bottle of beer, they would have become an invincible, defense-shattering tandem. Although the Bostonian himself, watching Hollander then, observing how he performed the exercise with flawless technique, was inwardly certain that in one locker room they would inevitably clash in a deadly struggle for the captaincy, for two such suns could not coexist in one star system, dooming it to an inevitable explosion. The thought, bitter and admiring at the same time, only made him grip the handrails tighter, plunging into his own, lonely work, but now with the sensation that somewhere nearby in this night city beat an equally insatiable heart.
Expectedly, gradually, Ilya began to feel better. With each movement, pushing himself to the point of breathlessness, he seemed to be learning to breathe again. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at his main rival, grinning as he noticed that the other was clearly trying to compete with him in speed on the stationary bike. Ilya was ready to laugh out loud if he hadn't sensed something special—a strange scent that settled around him like a mist. At first, he thought it was some air freshener nearby, then he wondered if it was Hollander's deodorant. No other ideas came, but Ilya flew through the entire spectrum of this inexplicably appearing aroma, which somehow calmed him, making his heart beat more steadily. The malaise vanished.
From that night on, he forever remembered this unusual combination: lemon zest—the top note, obvious, almost repellent in its fury, but beneath it something else, almost sweet. Honey-woody? Or was it orchid? Not that Ilya was too well-versed in floral notes, but his thoughts transported him back to that gym every time he passed a flower stall. There's nothing to it, just associative memory, right?
Ilya had no answers to that question, neither then nor later. Two years passed quickly—as if they hadn't existed. Endless training camps, pre-seasons, and then games in attempts to win the Cup. And for some reason, Ilya always felt a little better when they were scheduled against Montreal, which happened, fortunately, quite often, given the history of the clubs.
Well, he remembered much—how he kissed Shane after filming the season promo. He remembered how after every meeting he would smile, staring at the ceiling. How he would hide around the corner, waiting for that fucking Hayden Pike to walk down the hallway, so he could dash into Hollander's room and quickly press him into the pillows. Ilya still had no concrete explanation for why he was so drawn to this Canadian. But the pull was so strong that Rozanov was willing to risk everything just to allow himself a couple of hours in the same bed with him. It was all a huge mistake and stupidity, but Ilya, day after day, recalled that scent—whether of Hollander's very skin, or just his neck. And he would absolutely have asked what shower gel the Canadian used if he weren't afraid of looking like a creep.
Fucking Ilya Rozanov.
There was too much of him in Shane's life; it was becoming obvious and too oppressive. Although his presence often became the best event of the week, if not the season—Hollander was incredibly tired of hiding. From the public, and from close friends; the captain of Montreal was constantly forced to deceive Hayden and J.J., concocting stories about how he urgently needed to take a walk to the park in the middle of the night, or how he wanted to be alone before falling asleep. To his great fortune, he was never checked, never questioned; they trusted him. Month after month, it worked. But could their luck last a lifetime? And what kind of lifetime was it anyway—they were just periodically blowing off stress and tension with each other, weren't they?
And Shane still couldn't understand why Ilya was so... He was obviously an alpha to many—yes, Shane also seemed like an alpha to everyone, though he wasn't one—but Rozanov definitely was. The Canadian wished he could doubt it, but he could literally feel it. From that very day they crossed paths in the hotel gym after the draft.
Shane himself didn't fully understand back then why this Russian sat down next to him—just as he couldn't understand why he even wanted to compete with an alpha? He absolutely wouldn't have won, and besides, Rozanov was already famous for his endurance. He didn't sleep all night after the workout, asking himself over and over, "Since when do omegas themselves go up against alphas, idiot?" He had no answer. But what remained was a clear, unclouded memory—metal, bourbon, and cedar, like a reward for bravery. Ilya had touched Shane's fingers while passing him water and shared his scent, and Shane spent the whole night battling idiotic arousal from it until he gave up in the shower. He wondered if the Russian felt the same?
Be that as it may, it should have ended right there, in that hotel, and never allowed those thoughts near him again. Shane was a good guy, well-mannered and responsible. He definitely shouldn't have gotten involved in such trouble, threatening to turn everything upside down. He was obligated to keep his distance from the Boston captain, maintaining the distance prescribed by logic and career, but he simply couldn't manage it, as if some invisible force kept breaking his good intentions time and again.
And now, for several months, only one event in the endless series of flights and games truly delighted him—Ilya suggested meeting again. A simple phrase, tossed out almost casually, rang in his consciousness with an obsessive, sweet echo. The Canadian could literally feel a traitorous smile creeping across his face, despite all efforts to remain impassive, and he would immediately begin to hate himself for this weakness, for this childish, uncontrollable reaction.
Hayden, sitting next to him in the locker room, jokingly asked again about the new girlfriend with the mysterious, unpronounceable name, but Hollander didn't even bother to make anything up this time, just smirked in response, feeling a strange pride, and almost ran to pack up, as if every second of delay was precious. The day, despite all the inner torment, was starting off excellently, and that scared him more than any upcoming game.
And Shane hopelessly loved the way Ilya kissed, finding in it a kind of primal, almost artistic completeness. If it weren't for hockey, Rozanov should definitely consider starring in some kink-porn—it was too good, too intimate, and too beautiful to be true. Or to be shared only with a freckle-faced Canadian. Time and again, Hollander watched with bated breath as Ilya explored his body with animalistic abandon, not limiting himself to lips alone, but clearly mapping every mole, every scar, every curve. Why?
In such moments, Rozanov seemed obsessed with another's warmth and skin, and Shane, losing his voice, wanted to hope that the cause wasn't his lily-orchid scent, but something deeper, something that lived within Ilya himself and burst forth only in these moments stolen from the world. He caught himself craving that obsession, that almost painful attention, even if it meant absolutely nothing beyond the four walls of a hotel room. Even if tomorrow they were to take to the ice again as mortal enemies, ready to break each other's bones in an honest fight.
"Shane Hollander," the doctor stated calmly, writing something on the chart. "According to the test results, your body is within normal range. But *peak* normal."
"And what does that mean?" Getting dressed, the captain of Montreal deftly buttoned his shirt, not taking his eyes off the face of his personal physician, who was not affiliated with the team or hockey in general.
"Last time I suggested you interrupt the blocking medication regimen, you refused, citing the ongoing season. Now you're playing the last two games, as far as I know." The doctor set aside the chart, pulling out two sheets with numbers. "Here, take a look. Your gonadotropin levels are off the charts, while estradiol and progesterone are artificially stable. Such a gap isn't just unpleasant numbers on a test; it's a direct path to irreversible consequences."
"Irreversible consequences," Shane repeated aloud, sitting on the chair near the doctor, trying to understand everything thoroughly. "How bad is it?"
"First, the maximum risk of losing fertility. That's not just the inability to conceive in the future; it's a constant chance of benign tumor formation, skeletal thinning, heart problems. Hormonal imbalances that risk leaving you disabled. Therefore, you need to take a break outside the season." The doc pulled something from a drawer, signing a document. "Here's your prescription. I wrote it under a different name so you won't have issues, but I'm issuing you a two-week tapering-off protocol for the blockers, accompanied by vitamins D, K2, and Omega-3. You'll start the discontinuation today, you'll have time to finish the season in the process, and then you'll need to isolate."
"Doc, what happens when the offseason starts? I can't miss three months." Hollander felt his fingers trembling. He shook his head convulsively, trying to reject the reality. "I have to participate in team life, I'm the captain."
"You risk losing your career altogether, Shane. Listen." The doctor sat closer to the patient, speaking in a quiet, calm tone. "This is all serious. Another year without a break, and, first, your body might crash on its own. And then you'll be exposed publicly, abruptly, against your will. Second, looking at these tests... the next hard check against you isn't just a risk of a fracture. Bones without hormonal support become soft and light. That's the likelihood of breaking a vertebra from a simple fall. Also a risk of stroke, thrombosis, and cyclical menopause. I understand no one your age thinks about offspring, but later will be too late. If 'later' even comes, because you could be hit with symptoms of chronic depression moving forward. The oxytocin and dopamine receptor pathways have thinned. Gradually, you'll turn into a young but sick and apathetic person, and then your career will be finished for good. I'm offering you to take a break, and if needed, I'll write you a note about a fictitious injury for the team. But, Shane, three months—no medication."
It wasn't that Shane had planned that far ahead; the only thing he knew was that he wanted to play for Montreal for about twenty more years. And with each appointment, the doctor told him something that shattered his dreams. Bones? Heart? That's terrifying. But... infertility? Doctor Brown spoke as if Shane had somehow agreed to such a thing, being a captain-forward. He actually flinched at the prospect, yet the rest seriously frightened him. Disability? He must not become disabled at twenty.
"Alright," Shane exhaled, almost giving up. "Alright, I'll stop taking the blockers for the offseason. But in September, I'll start again to prepare for the new season."
"That's the best decision, Shane." The doctor handed him a sheet with recommendations and vitamin complexes. "Now, listen. These three months might pass for you... to put it mildly, unpleasantly. During this time, your body will try to expel everything it's been stockpiling resources for. Especially in the first month. Your ovaries haven't been working, and then, when the meds are gone, the pituitary gland will force them to work triple-time. I anticipate you'll experience up to five or six heats over the summer."
"Five or six? Over the summer? Doc, that's incapacitation every two weeks! I can't..."
"You'll be functional. But yes, the cycles will be frequent, short, and emotionally draining. That's the price. Summer is the only window. The season is over, the next starts in September. You have three months to weather this hormonal storm away from the eyes of the press and the team. If you don't go through this now and let your body 'blow off steam,' by October we'll be dealing not with temporary inconveniences but with lifelong hormone replacement therapy and osteoporosis by thirty. Choose: three months of hell alone with yourself or slow disability." Brown merely shrugged, showing neither a smile nor sadness. "And yes, be prepared—the first heat after discontinuation will be... maximally intense. Magnetic to alphas. Your body will demand the strongest, like never before. Make sure you're safe at that moment."