Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had always been very good at learning languages. His brain soaked it up like a sponge. He was fluent in English and French, conversational in Japanese and Spanish, and familiar with Italian. Language had always been as easy to him as hockey was, like it was second nature.
By sophomore year, Shane couldn’t put it off anymore — he had to pick a language to study. The overachiever that he was, Shane signed up to take Russian. He wanted to challenge himself and step out of his comfort zone, and he figured it couldn’t be any harder than any of the other languages he had learned.
By week two, Shane had realized he was sorely mistaken.
In order to stay on the hockey team and in the frat he pledged to (which was also out of his comfort zone, but all of his orientation week friends were doing it, so he did too. It worked out, it gave him a group outside of hockey, but he wasn’t always very comfortable), Shane had to keep his GPA above a 3.0. He could not afford to fail Russian, nor would his pride allow him to. Shane Hollander was good at languages and hockey. That is who he was.
It was when he received his first failing grade in the class that he knew he had to figure something out. The TA handed the stack of papers to the students in the front row, who grabbed their exams off the top of the pile and passed it back. The girl in the row in front of Shane took her exam and turned towards him, an empathetic expression on her face, and his stomach sank. He failed, and she knew.
He took the pile from her, and his worst fears came true. An “F” was circled in the corner of the paper in red ink, scribbles and corrections from the professor written all over the pages. Barely looking, Shane passed the stack behind him, his focus entirely on his grade. His head was swimming with self-ridicule and loathing and guilt, and he ended up zoning out for the rest of the class, stuck in his own mind.
He didn’t even realize class was over until the person next to him accidentally hit him with their bag. Shane gathered his stuff together, shoving his embarrassment of a grade into his backpack, and made his way to the front of the lecture hall to where the TA was sitting.
The TA, Jack, was nice enough. He was pretty nerdy, the tall and lanky type, and he was a fair grader. Shane wished Jack had been the one to grade this exam, because maybe he would’ve passed. Jack smiled when he saw Shane approach. “Hey, Shane, what’s up?”
Shane held on to his backpack straps, feeling like a little kid in trouble. “Hi. Um, so, my grade. Is there anything I can do to boost it back up? I really need to pass this class, and I studied really hard so I don’t know what happened—“
“Hey, man, it’s alright. It happens. There’s no extra credit or anything right now, but have you thought about going to the tutoring center?”
“What? Why would I do that?” Shane was baffled. He had never in his life needed help before. If he was struggling with a topic, he managed to figure it out, even if he had to stay up all night. He didn’t allow himself the privilege of asking for help.
Jack looked at him a bit incredulously. “If you’re studying and still having trouble, maybe having someone to go over the material with would be helpful. A buddy of mine is a Russian tutor, he’s super chill and great at what he does. If you’re down, I can text him and see when his schedule’s free.”
Fuck it. He had nothing to lose, honestly, and he would take all the help he could get. His pride needed to take the backseat for now. “Sure. Yeah. You have my number, tell him to text me whenever he’s free. Thanks, Jack.”
“Anytime, dude. Good luck with the game tonight.”
“Oh, thanks.” They fist-bumped, and Shane beelined for the exit, not waiting around for the rest of the stragglers to hear about his failure.
—
Shane was in the locker room before the game, headphones on and blasting music, when he got a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: hi. shane?
Shane furrowed his brows. Was this a scam?
Shane: Who is this?
Unknown Number: ilya rozanov. i am your russian tutor! first meeting tomorrow at 9pm?
Holy shit. Ilya Rozanov. They’d played hockey against each other when they were kids. They hadn’t kept in touch, their childhood and teenage years of rivalry robbing them of any potential friendship, but Shane knew they went to the same school. How could he not? It was a huge deal when Ilya didn’t immediately go pro or take a hockey scholarship. He could’ve. He was talented enough, but he didn’t do it. Hockey fans all over were horrified, because during their junior and senior years of high school, all anyone could ever talk about was how lucky the teams that got Hollander and Rozanov would be.
Somehow, they’d managed to avoid each other the first two years of university. Shane guessed he’d have to see him at some point, but this is not what he expected. He thought he’d run into him at a frat party, living up to his manwhore reputation, but no; instead, Ilya Rozanov was a Russian tutor. Who would’ve thought?
Shane: Oh yeah, ok sure that works
Ilya (Tutor): have to ask
Ilya (Tutor): do u remember me? ignore if u don’t
Shane debated what to say, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He could be honest, admitting he’d been thinking about him all these years, wondering what happened to him, missing their rivalry. He could also lie, and they could start fresh. With a quick breath, he steeled himself to respond.
Shane: Yeah haha how could I forget the asshole who beat me in Montreal
Ilya (Tutor): oh ha ha ha very funny coming from asshole who beat ME in ottawa
Shane: That’s my hometown I couldn’t let them down 😂
Ilya (Tutor): or you cheated. likely to happen. nobody would suspect polite canadian boy
Shane: Someone’s a sore loser!
Ilya (Tutor): no. i am never sore loser because i am never loser
Ilya (Tutor): you have a game tonight?
Shane: Yeah how’d you know
Ilya (Tutor): because i have a phone hollander i know about campus events
Ilya (Tutor): tutoring 9pm tomorrow yes?
Shane: Yes
Ilya (Tutor): ok see you then do not be late! 😇
Shane blew a little air out of his mouth in an attempt to hold back his laughter. He had never been late to anything in his life, and meeting up with Ilya Rozanov for tutoring would certainly not be the thing to break his streak.
He felt a pat on the shoulder, and he looked up to see senior Hayden Pike, one of his first friends at college, smirking at him. “Who are you texting that’s making you smile like that, Shane?”
Shane scoffed, shutting his phone off and shoving it back into his locker. “Nobody. My mom.”
“Was it nobody, or was it your mom?” Hayden leaned closer conspiratorially. “Look, man, I won’t tell anyone you got a girl, but between me and you, I’m happy for you. You deserve this.”
“Oh, it’s not a girl—“ Shane started, about to deflect to his mom again, but the look on Hayden’s face said he wasn’t going to let it go. In a moment of weakness, Shane dropped his head low. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Hayd.”
Hayden clapped his shoulder again. “My man. Let’s win tonight for her, yeah?”
“You got it.” Shane tried to summon the energy he had earlier, but he couldn’t do it. Something was off now, he felt unbalanced and uneasy. He was lying to his closest friend, and hadn’t even told him he needed tutoring to begin with. Hayden wouldn’t even care, but Shane would. He was losing to Ilya Rozanov in a one-sided rivalry the other didn’t know about.
A minute before the game started, Shane shook out his hands, trying to pump himself back up again. He checked his phone one last time, expecting to see a text of encouragement from his mom or dad. There was, but there was also a text from Ilya. His heartbeat spiked as he read the message.
Ilya (Tutor): oh and good luck. try not to lose. would be bad for moral
Ilya (Tutor): morale
This time, a laugh did escape him, followed by warmth in his chest. Woah. Even when Shane and Ilya were playing against each other in hockey, Shane had always found Ilya’s broken English not necessarily endearing, but he was fond of it. Obviously, it was hard to watch him struggle to find the right English words, but his persistence and determination made Shane feel fond. He had no other way to describe it. After they both went their separate ways, Shane pushed that thought and feeling away, not allowing himself to think about it (out of respect for Ilya, maybe, but more likely it was shame). It had been over a year since he last felt that fondness.
However, just like in the past, he shoved it down. He could not feel fond towards Ilya Rozanov for more reasons than he could count. He wasn’t charmed by him, nor was he even slightly entertained by him. Obviously. People don’t feel fond towards their old rivals.
Shane Hollander had a game to play. He sent a thumbs up, powered his phone off, and headed towards the ice, ignoring the part of him that wished he was going to play Ilya again.
—
Shane was riding on the success of the game for the whole next day. Classmates dapped him up, professors gave him congratulations, and he felt like he was on top of the world. His frat, mostly occupied by hockey players, would be hosting a party that weekend in celebration. This must be how it felt to be popular in high school, Shane couldn’t help but think. He wasn’t unpopular in high school, but he was riddled with anxiety and a lack of understanding social cues that prevented him from really making many friends outside of hockey. The summer before college, he finally got on an anti-anxiety medicine, which is probably what made him feel chill enough to pledge a fraternity.
The day went by in a whirlwind, he had almost completely forgotten about tutoring. He would’ve, if not for the text that he received at 8:00 p.m on the dot.
Ilya (Tutor): hello reminder tutoring in one hour
Shane had been laying in his dorm room, listening to music and scrolling on his phone when he read the text. He shot up and looked around his room, realizing he should’ve started to prepare for tutoring. He should have reviewed some things so he wouldn’t seem completely hopeless.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. It was fine. He still had an hour.
Shane: Thanks lolIlya (Tutor): ur welcome
Ilya (Tutor): congrats on game btw. you scored many goals
Shane: Wow, how astute, you should be a sports announcer
Ilya (Tutor): good thing this is not english tutoring because i do not know that word “astute”. my new word of the day. also, i did not watch your game, was busy, but i read an article. article said that word for word
Shane: Lolllll they’re not wrong though I did score many goals
Ilya (Tutor): you have always been very good player so this does not surprise me. not better than me but close
Ilya (Tutor): 9pm hollander do not forget. set alarm, i will be waiting in library lobby
For the next hour, Shane read through all of his notes with haste and gusto he didn’t know he had. The last thing he would do would be to show up to his first tutoring session knowing absolutely jack shit, because otherwise Ilya would think he was dumb and stupid, and then Shane would lose (obviously).
At 8:50, he threw his stuff in his bag and headed out towards the library. It was an oddly warm day for February in Canada, the weather only requiring a jacket instead of gloves and scarves and hats. Shane lived pretty close to the library, and he always felt guilty about not taking advantage of how close he was to it. He usually preferred to study alone in his room so that the environment would be “just right”, he could have his music playing as loud as he wanted, and there were no distractions.
When he pushed the library doors open, he was greeted by a rush of warm air that smelled of coffee and books. His eyes scanned frantically around the lobby, checking to see if there was anyone he knew there — anyone from hockey, from class, from the frat, anyone that could recognize him and immediately brand him as stupid.
The anxiety in his chest unfurled slightly when he didn’t spot anyone. Until, at least, he saw Ilya, and his anxiety spiked again. Maybe it wasn’t anxiety, maybe it was something else that he absolutely did not feel like unpacking at the moment, but it made his heart race regardless.
Ilya spotted him at the same time, rising from his seat by the stairs and gliding over to him. Ilya walked like he owned the place, like he was confident, assured in himself and his worth. Shane couldn’t help but be jealous of that.
When he got close enough, Shane could smell his cologne. It was musky, but not too overpowering. It was nice. Kind of business-y, like he worked in a fancy banking place where all the employees carried leather Hermes bags and drank black coffee in the morning. He hadn’t been this close to him in so long.
Ilya gave him a nod in greeting. “You are-“ he glanced down at his watch, “-one minute late.”
All the anxiety Shane felt turned immediately into anger. “You cannot be serious right now. It’s one minute-“
Ilya’s serious expression quickly broke into one of amusement, his blue eyes sparkling and bouncing between Shane’s brown ones, clearly entertained. “Ah, Hollander, I am joking. Is just one minute, like you said. I am just happy you made it here at all.” His Russian accent, deep and animated, flowed through Shane’s veins like an antidote for all of his negative feelings.
Still slightly confused and a little embarrassed at his misunderstanding, Shane let out what could barely pass as a laugh. “Ha, yeah. Same.”
A moment passed as the two looked at each other. Shane let his eyes focus on Ilya’s mouth instead, finding it easier to look at than his eyes…or maybe not, actually. He decided he couldn’t look there, either, when Ilya’s lips tipped into a grin.
“Come on, moy malen’kiy proyekt. I got us a table upstairs on second floor.”
As they started towards the stairs, Shane asked, “Wait, what does that mean?”
“Guess,” Ilya shot back lightheartedly. “You know what ‘moy’ means, yes?”
“Yeah, ‘my’.”
“The rest you will learn in time.”
Shane fought the urge to roll his eyes as he continued following Ilya to the table he had reserved, which was in the far back corner, obstructed by bookcases and mostly secluded from the rest of the floor. He appreciated this silently as he regarded Ilya’s belongings already on the table: his computer, a blue metal water bottle with a dent in it, a beat up folder that was barely holding the papers inside.
Ilya slid into the seat, gesturing for Shane to take the seat next to him, so he did. Ilya opened his laptop that was already on the tutoring website, a form ready to be filled out on his screen.
Ilya turned to him. “So, Hollander. Shane. In order to be the best tutor for you, I need to ask you a couple questions before. Is no big deal, just study habits and things like that.”
Shane steeled himself and nodded his head. He hated answering questions about himself. “Okay. Yeah, makes sense.”
“Okay.” Ilya clicked a bit on his computer, typed a couple things, and turned back to him. “First, on a scale of one to ten, how confused in class are you right now?”
“Ten being the worst?”
Ilya’s lips tipped up in a smile. “Yes, Hollander.”
“Oh, God. This is so embarrassing," Shane covered his head with his hands. “Probably, like, an eight.”
“Hey, nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people I tutor say ten, so you are already off to a better start than them.” He clicked around on his laptop and typed a few words. “Next question. How have you been studying Russian before?”
“Flashcards, mostly. YouTube videos if I’m really stuck, but they don’t help much.”
“And your flashcards are based off of what?”
“My notes. Sometimes the textbook, but usually not, because I don’t understand the textbook either.”
Ilya typed a bit more. “What do you struggle with the most? Translations, pronunciation, grammar, conjugations…”
“All of it,” Shane muttered, eyes trained on the ground. He couldn’t look at Ilya’s face, he didn’t want to see the disappointment. “I don’t understand anything, Rozanov. I don’t know why I haven’t just dropped the class yet.”
Ilya nodded before turning his whole body towards Shane. “Well, you are in luck. I happen to be the best Russian tutor in all of Canada — all of North America, actually. Some even say in all of the world. No challenge is too difficult for me.”
“Who exactly is telling you these things?”
“Ah, people.”
“People?”
“Yes, they stop me on the street and say, ‘oh Mr. Rozanov, you are the greatest Russian tutor of all time and I owe you my first born son’ and other things of that nature.”
“Oh, wow. That’s an incredible honor they give to you, a stranger on the street.”
“I am just so giving and kind. I am like the Pope in that way.”
A laugh finally escaped Shane. This guy was something else. “You think very highly of yourself.”
“Maybe,” Ilya shrugged. “Or maybe I am just honest and saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Alright, man. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Oh, so you’re picturing me in bed at night?” Ilya’s mouth widened into a mega-watt smile capable of powering at least a small town.
That familiar jolt of anxiety travelled through Shane’s veins. “What? No, no, of course not, I just —“
“Is okay if you do. Maybe it will help you sleep to think of me,” Ilya winked.
The worst thing is that Shane was, at that moment, genuinely picturing Ilya Rozanov in bed. With him. His flirtatious voice, teasing him, whispering praises in his ear, hard abs toned from years of hockey but also soft from the years without. His golden curls, messed and ruffled, framing his face in a way that made Michelangelo jealous. Somewhere buried deep in his brain, Shane knew he needed to get up and request a new tutor. These feelings, or whatever they were, were not appropriate, not correct, not… wanted. However, when he looked at Ilya, his blue eyes lit with humor, his defined Cupid’s bow stretched into a grin, Shane also knew that there was no world in which he would willingly part from such a beautiful person.
Shane didn’t know how to respond. His brain wasn’t working quick enough to create some witty response — he knew Ilya was joking again, he was speaking in the same tone that he was before, but Shane didn’t know what to say back that wouldn’t take the joke too far or make it awkward or uncomfortable.
Instead, he just let out a small laugh and shook his head, looking down at the ground. The safer choice, he thought.
Ilya turned back towards the laptop, and Shane snapped upwards, realizing he’d been zoning out. “Last question for now. How many days a week do you want to meet up?” asked Ilya.
“I don’t know. At least once.”
Ilya pressed his lips together to hold back a smile. Shane didn’t really know what was funny, but he thought Ilya’s face looked cute like that. “Yes, that might be a good idea. Do you think twice a week will be helpful, or too much?”
“Um, probably helpful, but it would have to be late at night because I have class and hockey.”
“That is no problem. I understand. Tuesdays and Thursdays at nine work for you?”
Shane tried to picture his calendar in his head, running through all of his plans and extracurriculars. “Yeah, that’s good.”
With a smile, Ilya shut his laptop and turned back to him. “Okay, Hollander. What should we work on first? Do you have any homework we can review, or an exam you want to go over?”
Shane felt a pit of embarrassment and guilt in his stomach as he said, “Yeah, I, uh,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “-failed my exam, and I don’t know what I got wrong.”
He rooted through his backpack, pulling the packet out of his dedicated Russian class folder. The “F” still sat in the corner, staring at him with threats of his world crashing down and his life being meaningless. He looked up at the ceiling and pushed the packet towards Ilya, unable to look at it any longer.
Ilya made a “hm” sound when he saw the score, flipping through the pages slowly to go over each question and answer. It felt like an hour to Shane, who just wanted to burn the exam and pretend it never existed.
“Hollander? You okay?” Ilya pushed the packet in between the two of them.
Shane was still looking at the ceiling. “Huh? Yeah.”
“Can you look at me? Is that okay?”
Shane made a sound close to a grunt and a whimper, not wanting to face Ilya, not wanting to know how much of a disappointment he thought he was. It took everything in his power not to get up and leave. He wanted to cry. Instead, he slowly moved his gaze down from the ceiling to Ilya’s eyebrows.
Ilya’s lips tipped up, and Shane noticed the concern flooding through his eyes. “Good. Can I ask you one more question?”
“Two questions, you mean, because that was also a question,” Shane corrected in a low voice. “But yes.”
Ilya ignored the first part. “On a scale of one to ten, like what we talked about before, how upset are you about this grade?”
Shane furrowed his eyebrows and averted his gaze to the floor again, shaking his head. His fingernails found purchase on his jeans as he began to scratch, the sensation soothing him. “I’m not upset. It’s fine.”
“It is not fine. You are clearly very upset. I want you to look at me while I say this, okay?”
“Fuck you,” Shane muttered, but he still brought his eyes back to Ilya’s eyebrows.
Ilya smiled, soft and patient, and said, “Hi again.” His blue eyes bore into Shane’s, flicking between one eye and the other like he was trying desperately not to miss any expression on his face.
“Get the fuck on with it already.”
Ilya’s eyes shimmered with humor for a moment, but sobered quickly again. “A bad grade does not make you a bad student, Hollander. You are struggling, but you are here, with me, in tutoring, to help you not struggle so much anymore. Is nothing to be ashamed of. When I first came to Canada, I failed so many fucking tests. Still today, I am not perfect, if you can believe it, and I get help sometimes when I am really not understanding. I am here to help you with Russian. That is my job, and I am good at it, but you need to believe in yourself, too. I cannot do all the heavy lifting. For now, though, I will believe in you enough for the both of us until you can see that you are a good student and an ‘F’ does not matter. We will build your confidence with Russian language, and then you will be proud of yourself. Understand?”
All Shane could do was nod his head. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Very good. For the next-“ Ilya glanced at his watch, “-twenty minutes, we are going to go over the exam. I will explain mistakes and you can ask questions. After twenty minutes, you can leave, and then I will see you again on Thursday at nine.”
That is exactly what they did. Ilya went through each question with painstaking patience, explaining every mistake he made and how to avoid making them again. He answered Shane’s questions he felt too embarrassed to ask in class, and finally, by the end, Shane could kind of grasp what he had done wrong. He still didn’t understand the words, but he knew more than he did at the beginning of the session, and any progress was good progress.
By the time Shane got home for the night, his brain was completely dead. Between the difficulty he had in the subject, combined with his near-panic attack and pushing down of feeling towards his tutor, Shane’s social battery was entirely dead and needed at least two days to recharge, but unfortunately, he still had class the next morning. It’s not like he was paying much attention in his classes anyway, his thoughts always drifting back to the blonde Russian who talked him off the ledge.
God, he was so fucked.