Chapter Text
Ilya closed his eyes and savoured a long puff from his cigarette as he contemplated his future. When he thought about where he was, in Regina, at the International Prospect Cup on the cusp of the beginning of his hockey career, he still couldn’t believe it. He knew that his life would never be the same. Ilya was about to be a star…a god of hockey if you will. All of the scouts and media frenzy around him made that a certainty. Just thinking about how his life was about to change caused him to grin around his cigarette at the rising hope that nearly overwhelmed him. His dreams, which for so long had seemed like an illusion, were finally about to come true. He, Ilya Rozanov, was about to be drafted to the MLH! He would move to America and maybe someday even become a U.S. citizen. He would become a millionaire and he and his family would never want for anything ever again. More importantly, he would finally be out from under his father and brother’s judgemental thumbs, free at last to be himself.
But who exactly was he? The media and other hockey players who he’d been teamed up with or who were pitted against him simply painted him as a charming, arrogant asshole, who lived only for the win. Was that all that he was? Just a dumb hockey jock? He knew that’s how they thought of him, what with the trouble he had speaking English. The problem was that the English words didn’t always come to him when he had to actually open his mouth, but he could usually understand most of what they were saying. Probably. Although everyone else just cared about his hockey skills, he had also studied hard at school, dreaming of a life away from Russia. Would they believe that he’d read Dostoyevski, Tolstoy, Checkov? If they were speaking in Russian he could talk circles around anyone. But an intellectual from Russia was not who they wanted. They wanted a villain. A rival for the American players that would be drafted alongside him in six months.
So instead he played up the dumb jock they wanted him to by winking at the reporters, making sure they caught him shirtless or half naked in the locker rooms, and even thinking of the most outrageous ways to answer their annoying questions because he knew that even if he became the playboy - villain they wanted, the more they cared about who he was, the more likely he would get the attention of the coaches and teams that he might one day play for. He cringed a little thinking of his latest interview. Had he actually promised to score 40 goals in his first MLH season? What an asshole they must think he is! Well, he’d find a way to make sure to succeed. His charm and confidence had gotten him out of more problems than he could count, so why not lean into the character? Besides, the way he acted wasn’t entirely false. He dreamed like most of the other rookies of succeeding in the MLH and having a mansion, cars, and lots of money. Who didn’t? What else was there to want out of life? These are the things that make people happy, right?
But did he even truly remember when the last time was that he had been completely happy? Maybe it was when his beautiful, sweet mother was still alive. Irina. It was she who had introduced him to hockey, given him an outlet away from home, where he didn’t have to hear his parents arguing or his father or brother’s constant criticisms of him. It was she who attended all of his games when his father was too busy, being the Chief of Police. She would even hold his hand walking him home from the rink as he excitedly summarized the game for her, even though she had already watched the whole thing. How he’d loved her! She’d been the only light in his life, other than hockey and Svetlana, his best friend, back in Russia.
Ilya inhaled sharply then, at the brief, painful flash that came into his mind whenever he thought about his mother, about how he’d found her dead all of those years ago, when he was only 12, overdosed on pills. He would never forget the sight of her cold still body or forgive his father for why she’d ended up that way. He’d never treated her right and Ilya had been helpless to stop him, having only been a boy. It had taken more years than he could count, what seemed like an endless supply of vodka, and Svetlana’s support, to finally forgive himself for that. Other than Svetlana’s friendship, Ilya had been so alone after his mother’s passing. His father couldn’t even face up to the fact that his mother would have rather been dead than live trapped in a marriage with him. Instead he lied telling everyone it was only “an accident” and forced Ilya to lie as well to keep up appearances. Ilya swallowed hard and pushed down the feelings of hurt and betrayal, as he had been taught to do by his family.
The only thing worse than remembering his mother’s death, was the endless loop of criticisms from his family that shadowed his every step. Boys don’t cry, Ilya! Don’t you think your mother would be ashamed of you, still mourning months after she’s gone? Do you want to shame your father, your community? You think you're good for anything other than hockey? You think you will get to the MLH with that weak backhand? You need more practice! Perfection is the only way to succeed! It was like he’d never be good enough even though he’d tried everything he could think of to try to be the perfect son. God. He couldn’t wait for his independence from his family. The draft couldn’t happen soon enough.
Ilya took another deep breath and tried to compose himself. He’d have to go in for practice soon and couldn’t let anyone see him this way, especially the opposing team. They’d think he was soft or something, ruining the image he was building of himself. He dropped the stub of his cigarette butt, putting it out before pulling out another.
His left hand briefly touched the cross that he wore around his neck as he searched for his lighter, his reminder of his mother’s values and the love she had for him. It was the only thing he’d brought from Russia of hers and he would keep it with him always. She always used to tell him he had such a big heart, but since she’s been gone he’s closed himself off for so long from serious relationships, so he wouldn’t have to feel the hurt he felt when she died. He closed his eyes briefly and held the cross close as he prayed silently. Wherever you are, I hope that you are happy mama and that I am making you proud. After a moment, He opened his eyes and let go of the cross, vowing to find a way to live happily, the way she hadn’t been able to.
Ilya then went back to trying to light his next cigarette. He needed another to calm him before he faced his father’s expectations and Prospect cup team once more. As he was doing so, he heard the door behind him open and someone move across the walkway towards him. His coach? His father? Another teammate? Fuck! He just wanted some place to think alone for a minute. Ilya schooled his features into a neutral one before he turned around.
He was surprised when a good looking man held out his hand to him, asking, “Ilya Rozanov? I’m Shane Hollander.”
Ilya felt his breach catch as he let his eyes roam slowly over Hollander. So this was Shane Hollander? The golden boy. The only person with as much media attention as him. His supposed rival in this tournament; his competition for the number one draft spot. Ilya was frozen in place and his heart began to beat faster, although he didn’t let it show on his face. Years of practicing hiding his feelings made it second nature. But he couldn’t deny that he felt an instant attraction to the man. His beautiful brown eyes, smiling face, and athletic, compact build did something to him. He was gorgeous! Of course Shane Hollander would be exactly his type. But the feature that he couldn’t stop looking at were his beautiful freckles. He’d never noticed someone’s freckles before, but on Hollander they highlighted his wonderful cheekbones and the flush on his cheeks. Ilya had the impression that an artist must have painted them on his face in a way that was so enticing that he couldn’t look away.
He thought that he could happily stare at Hollander’s beautiful face for hours. Wait, was that a flush on his cheeks due to the biting wind or was he..blushing? Certainly Hollander wasn’t having similar thoughts about him? Ilya knew that he was attractive, and had enough people throwing themselves at him in this last year to be an ego boost, but he’d rarely had those looks directed at him by men, at least not so overtly. As far as Ilya knew there were no “out” hockey players and Hollander was already popular enough in North America as the youngest hockey prospect at the cup, that it would have been in the news. He must just be projecting.
Ilya snapped back to the present and realised how long he had been staring at the man. Hollander had even shifted his stance in uncertainty the longer Ilya didn’t take up his handshake. Finally he willed himself to move and shake Hollander’s hand, but the damage had been done and the moment was lost. Hollander must think he was so weird.
A small frown came across Hollander’s beautiful face as he said disapprovingly, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here.”
The comment threw Ilya off. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Here he was trying to keep his features neutral as he thirsted over his supposed rival, and instead Hollander wanted to berate him for…smoking outdoors of all places, where no one else was even around? Hollander was so boring! He bet he always followed all of the rules like a good golden boy should. What he wouldn’t give to see him shake loose of that stiffness. Ilya couldn’t even remember what he’d said in response, speaking automatically, as he continued to subtly (he hoped) check him out.
Finally, Hollander, seemingly fed up with his one word responses, huffed and turned to leave saying in exasperation, “They’re waiting for me. Good luck at the tournament.”
Ilya couldn’t help but bait him in the hopes that he would turn around and stay. He said teasingly to his rival’s back with a smirk on his face, “You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
Hollander turned, his eyes flashed with anger as he retorted, “That’s not happening.” Curiously while his eyes seemed angry?...smouldering?...(were completely distracting)…he was smiling when he spoke. Was Hollander enjoying their banter like he was? Ilya winked at him to see how he would react and was delighted to see that the flush on his cheeks spread across his whole face. Maybe his first thought that Hollander was feeling the same attraction as he was wasn’t totally off? He would need to keep a closer eye on him in the tournament and outside of it to see if his guess was correct.
Hollander finally broke eye contact and spun away back towards the rink. Running away so soon, Hollander? Baiting him was going to be so much fun.
“See you in final,” Ilya called after Hollander mockingly. The other man didn’t react other than to close the door firmly shut, which made Ilya’s smile grow.
Now that he was gone, Ilya leaned back against the wall and replayed the last few minutes. This was the most fun he’d had at the tournament. Sure, he loved the hockey, but because of his English and attitude, most players simply avoided him unless they were on the rink. That had made the tournament quite lonely. It was hard being the best player.
Okay, Ilya could at least admit to himself that Hollander was decidedly not boring. Not that he would tell him this, at least not anytime soon. Hollander had completely derailed any of his previous thoughts of Russia or his family in the few moments they had spoken alone. He was simply far too pretty. And despite his golden boy image, Ilya couldn’t help but feel like there was more beneath the surface than he let the media see. Maybe he was not so different from Ilya after all, hiding who he was in plain sight to achieve his dreams. But how to get to see the real Shane Hollander? Ilya wondered how the golden boy and the media would react if… no… when he, Ilya Rozanov, the villain of the tournament, beat him in the final. He couldn’t wait to find out.
Ilya walked back inside with a smile on his lips and a jaunt in his step with a new goal in mind. He was already about to achieve all of his dreams in a matter of months. Money…cars…fame…freedom. Yet even as he thought of these, a smouldering look and challenging smile flashed in his mind. He may not know exactly what happiness looks like, but he knows he’s never felt about anyone the way he felt about Hollander in that brief flash of time they had alone together. The man was going to be trouble for him with a capital T. He couldn’t wait to put that look on his face again. Of course, he would have to be careful to not get caught, but, if the feeling was mutual, getting to know Hollander better would be worth it.
After all, if they were going to be rivals, why not have some fun in the process?
Step 1 to getting Hollander’s attention: Find as many ways as possible to annoy him.