Work Text:
Los Angeles, California – June 2009
Grigory Rozanov made Yuna Hollander’s skin crawl.
She considered herself unflappable, tough even. She had to be, the grandchild of immigrants, whose grandparents didn’t speak English or French, who brought strange foods to school, packing a bento box before it was trendy. Because she was tall, because she was beautiful, because she brown—mostly that last one. Yuna had to develop thick skin just to make it through her day without committing three justified homicides, and by the time she reached her forties, she thought she could navigate any social situation without showing her true thoughts or feelings. She learned to finesse her temper, she ran cold, not hot, and her fury came from below, a steady roll of thunder, not a bright flash of lightning.
She saw Grigory Rozanov reach for his son, saw Ilya Rozanov’s controlled flinch, saw the way the boy, and he was just a boy, forced himself to stand still as his father pawed his shoulder, and she felt the thunder trembling in her marrow. She felt an icy finger trip along her spine, a warning—
Do not let him see you.
Across the room, Yuna’s eyes met Jamie Horgan’s. The Boston GM was with his father, who looked like an older, more rotund version of Jamie with his cut glass Yankee features. Jim Horgan was shaking hands with Ilya Rozanov, welcoming him to Boston as the number one overall draft pick. Over Rozanov’s shoulder, Jamie’s eyes flickered to Grigory Rozanov squeezing his son’s shoulder, then back to Yuna.
She nodded slightly, solemn and grave.
Her son, Shane, filled space with intensity, focus, and sheer talent. He probably could take up more room, and she hoped someday he would, but for now, at just eighteen, she needed Shane to blend in to the degree it was possible. He was the second overall pick of the draft, he was one of the brightest young lights in hockey, there was enough attention and pressure on him without adding attitude. She hated model minority bullshit, had chafed against it her whole life, and she was already plotting all the ways in which Shane would not adhere to those stereotypes. But in this one regard, as he was at the start of his professional hockey career, she wanted Shane to let his game speak for itself.
Ilya Rozanov, on the other hand, dominated space with his attitude. He was larger than life even at barely eighteen, charming in a sort of feral cat way, and unexpectedly funny. Rozanov was already getting away with an enormous amount of bullshit in the media, but then, he was a conventionally handsome white boy. Tall and blonde and blue-eyed, even. There was no question in Yuna’s mind that the only thing keeping Rozanov from being hockey’s anointed darling was the fact that he was Russian; there was still a lot of mistrust and ill will between Russia and the west. Rozanov would never be seen as wholesome, even if he was a sainted monk, because of his ethnicity. People made assumptions about Rozanov because of where he came from, the foreignness of his name, his accent. Yuna could identify with that.
She watched as his father bore down on his shoulder, as Rozanov shrank inward, making himself small. Her eyes caught Jamie Horgan’s again. Neither of them liked this. Rozanov should be brash and loud and annoying and captivating. Not this…scared little boy. A shadow of himself.
A chill passed over Yuna, goosebumps erupting down her arms.
Get him away!
The impulse to go over and physically pull Rozanov away from his father was inexplicably strong. Yuna rubbed the back of her neck, subtly rolling her shoulders.
“Are you okay?” David, her perceptive, imperturbable husband murmured in her ear.
“Yes,” she replied, offering him a small smile. “Just wore the wrong shoes. I should have broken these in before.”
“Well, you look like a million bucks.” David still looked at her like he had when they were nineteen, like he was starstruck, like he didn’t know why she was giving him the time of the day. That man woke up looking at her like he won the lottery every day. She never got tired of it. It was all she wanted for Shane, for someone to wake up decades into their relationship and look at him like David looked at her.
Next to her, Shane shifted slightly, his gaze fastened on his glass of ginger ale resting on the cocktail table before them. She nudged him.
“I will give you twenty-four hours to pout, and then you will get over it and realize that you did not lose anything today,” she said crisply but quietly.
“Rozanov was first,” he muttered mulishly.
Yuna smoothed Shane’s bangs and ran her hand down his cheek.
“Yes, and neither you nor he could control that.” I did a little, maybe, but you will get over it, she willed him silently. “We are thrilled you’ll be playing close to home, and for my team, no less.”
Shane met her eyes briefly, a hopeful light in his eyes.
“We are so proud of you,” Yuna went on. “I am so proud of you. But you can’t control the business office. You play your game to the best of your ability, and the business office will do what the business office will do.”
He nodded.
“And if you really want to do something about it, beat Rozanov for the cup in December.”
Shane’s smile, a carbon copy of her own, grew wider at the prospect.
“Besides, at least you didn’t go to Buffalo.”
That got a little laugh out of her over-achieving son.
Marc LaFleur, General Manager of the Montreal Métropolitains, chose that moment to join them. They had already done photo ops and formal welcomes, but the man kept circling back and preening over Shane.
“Hollander,” he said, slapping Shane’s shoulder in a way that made Shane stand very still. Discouragement, Yuna knew, from it happening again. “I just wanted to say once again how glad we are to have you on board. I’ll have to thank Horgan for taking out the Euro trash and leaving us the golden boy.”
If looks could kill, Shane’s death glare would liquidate LaFleur on the spot. Nobody respected Shane’s temper except Yuna and David, who nurtured it carefully and deliberately. Shane was like his father, he had a long, slow fuse, but the gods could not help you if you set him off. Shane never forgot, and he never forgave.
“Rozanov is Russian,” he said stiffly.
“What?” LaFleur asked, distracted, too busy eyeing up the other rookies scattered around the room, chatting with family, team owners, and GMs.
“Rozanov is Russian. He’s not European.”
“What’s the difference?” LaFleur honed in on Shane, not entirely thrilled his new golden boy was talking back.
“Ethnicity. Religion. Language. Customs. Politics. A thousand years of history.” Shane’s tone was robotic and neutral, his face expressionless. He could really be an asshole when he wanted.
Yuna was so proud of her son.
“Okay, so he took the Russian trash out for us.”
“Rozanov is my friend.” Shane was fully frowning now.
LaFleur’s brows went up, true surprise flashing on his face.
“That’s real? That’s not junior league publicity bullshit?”
“No, sir,” Shane added, just a touch sarcastically, so subtle anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t catch it. “We kept in touch after the cup in December. I’ve been helping him with English, and he’s been teaching me Russian. He makes good playlists for working out.”
LaFleur blinked, nonplussed.
“The league is very excited about all the possibilities two young, charismatic superstars pose from a marketing standpoint,” Yuna said smoothly. “They’re already talking about joint ad campaigns. You know kids now are all about their crossovers. What’s better than Canada’s and Russia’s best young players, fierce competitors on the ice, fast friends off it?”
“Right.” LaFleur made a moue of distinct distaste. “Just so long as your friendship doesn’t compromise the game.”
“No, sir,” Shane said more sincerely. “I intend to bury Rozanov every time we play.”
“Good, good. That’s what I like to hear.”
“You can really tell the GMs who never played,” David murmured as Marc LaFleur abandoned them for literally richer fields, in the form of the billionaire owners of the New York Admirals. “They treat it all like a big show.”
“He is good at drafting,” Yuna allowed.
David snorted.
“He’s good at keeping the payroll right under cap. His player development office is good at drafting.”
Yuna tipped her glass of champagne toward her husband, acknowledging his point.
Shane lapsed back into his solemn contemplation of ginger ale.
She was content to let him disassociate. Glancing around the room, she saw that Rozanov was gone. His odious father was talking in a corner to an equally odious man Yuna recognized as Rozanov’s agent, a fellow Russian from Moscow. Across the room, Jamie Horgan tipped his head slightly toward the sign indicating the way to the toilets.
“Excuse me,” she said to her family, setting down her champagne. “I need to use the loo.”
The hallway was empty, so no one saw her slip into the men’s room and lock the door.
“Mrs. Hollander.” Rozanov straightened so fast, she wasn’t sure what he’d been doing, but she thought she’d just caught Ilya Rozanov death-staring himself in the mirror.
“Yuna,” she corrected with a smile. “Congratulations, number one.”
A crooked smile broke out across his face.
“Sorry I took away from your son.”
“No, you’re not,” she said drily.
He tipped his head in a gesture that said, No, I’m not.
“Boston will be good for you,” she said firmly, stepping up to him and straightening his tie. “Better for you than for Shane and don’t ever tell him I said that.”
Rozanov’s brows went up.
“Secrets from your son?”
“Mothers always have secrets from our sons.”
His face fell, something haunting flickering across his features before he controlled himself. Yuna felt like she’d just stepped in a trap.
“Your mother must have been very beautiful,” she said, keeping her tone light.
“Why must this be?”
“Because I’ve seen your father, so now I know you got all this,” she pinched his cheek, “from your mother.”
A very small smile softened his features.
“She was.”
“We have something for you,” she said, reaching into her tiny evening bag. “From me and David. We got Shane something similar.”
“You…got me present?”
“Yes. To mark your draft day.” She handed over a small box.
Rozanov opened it and stared down at the contents, a pair of cufflinks, silver hockey sticks inlaid in enamel, with his initials monogrammed on each link, IR.
“Is for me?” he asked, still doubtful.
“Yes.”
“Like for Hollander?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re proud of you. Me and David. Shane tells us about how hard you work. He’s never been impressed by anyone else’s conditioning regimen, but he’s impressed by you. I know what it takes to impress my son.” Yuna reached up, smoothed a curl from Rozanov’s forehead, ran her hand down his cheek. “You worked hard, and it paid off, and we’re proud of you. Happy draft day, Ilya.”
His lower lip trembled and his eyes sparkled suspiciously, but he took a deep breath and blinked away the evidence of his softness.
“Thank you,” he said, enunciating carefully. “I will…treasure always.”
“Shane is allowed to pout for twenty-four hours.” She unlocked the bathroom door. “Don’t tease him too hard.”
“Hollander is sore loser.”
“And you’re a sore winner,” Yuna shot back.
Rozanov grinned, unrepentant.
“We’ll see you in December,” she added over her shoulder.
“December,” he repeated softly, the door slipping closed with a soft sigh.
Ilya stood in the bathroom and stared at his present for a long time, the ghost of a mother’s touch heavy on his cheek.