Work Text:
Being Shane’s dad is different from what people expect.
David’s seen plenty of players and their dads and it’s not always the best. Most of them are hockey dads, like the only thing they know or care about their sons is their hockey. They talk to and about their sons but only about their play - David hates to imagine what it’s like in the room when their sons hit a stretch of tough games, when the puck just won’t hit the back of the net, and they just can’t win a game. David wonders what they’ll talk about when their sons retire. Will they just sit around reminiscing about the same old games as if they’re watching them on replay? Will they stop talking to each other at all?
The hockey dads who used to be players can be bad. Sometimes it’s nice and hockey is something that really connects dads with their sons. But David’s seen it get twisted too many times. There are too many ex-players competing with their sons, maybe even resenting their sons for being better than they ever were. Far too many ex-players pushing their sons to fulfil their own hockey dreams.
That’s still better than the hockey dads obsessed with money. Those guys live to schmooze with the GM, and brag loudly and crassly about the value of their sons’ contracts and sponsorships. They can be just as weird and competitive about their sons as the ex-player hockey dads, except about money instead of hockey stats. Yuna once used the phrase ‘like a pig to slaughter’ to describe how the hockey money dads look at their sons and David hasn’t been able to shake the thought ever since.
David’s been mistaken for all those kinds of hockey dads before. And they’re not completely wrong - but they’re not anywhere close to right either. He’s played plenty of hockey with Shane, likes to think that he shared his love of hockey with Shane when they were playing knee hockey in the living room and shinny on the outdoor rink. But David knew he was never going to play pro hockey, was happy and proud to play college hockey at McGill, and has no illusions that he’s some hockey genius - he leaves the profession of hockey to Shane and Yuna and the coaches and trainers.
They always expect David to be the one managing Shane’s career too, especially once they hear that he works for the Treasury Board. And David is good with numbers, always goes over that part of Shane’s contracts and investment portfolio with him. But Yuna is the one with the strategic vision about managing the whole of Shane’s career, on and off the ice.
Lots of people in hockey, not just hockey dads, look at David strangely when they find out that he doesn’t train or coach or manage Shane. More than a few of them sneer and it’s clear they’re thinking what the fuck David does for Shane then. Like cooking his favourite meals, being interested in what he’s doing and what he likes, giving him space away from being Shane Hollander the Hockey Superstar is just nothing. Like David loving his son is nothing.
Right now, David’s top priority is looking after his boys. Shane and Ilya are a million times more important than any hockey play or contract will ever be.
David’s used to Shane’s diet by now. His nutritionist and chef and the Metros staff take care of most of Shane’s food requirements during the season and David really only gets involved when Shane comes over for a family dinner. The rules aren’t quite as strict in the off-season but he’s not sure what Ilya’s diet rules are.
“Ilya, do you like beef?” David asks.
Ilya blinks as he looks up hurriedly from the album of Shane’s baby photos open on the coffee table in front of him. “Yes. I eat everything.”
David’s familiar enough with hockey players to know that’s probably true. They burn through calories during the season and then spend the off-season rebuilding their bodies to survive the grind of next season. Food is fuel before flavour or pleasure.
“But you like beef? I’m thinking of trying to make beef Wellington when you boys come over for Saturday lunch. Shane doesn’t like the pastry and foie gras and prosciutto and everything so I’ll roast some tenderloin for him - I can make another portion for you too.”
Ilya looks nervous, like he’s about to sit an exam he hasn’t studied for. “Both is good. I eat both.”
“Ugh, they’re not both good,” Shane groans. “Beef Wellington is gross.”
“It’s a classic,” David protests.
“It’s stodgy rich old man food,” Yuna teases him.
“Fits because I’m a stodgy old man,” David replies mildly.
Shane’s on a roll with his complaints about beef Wellington. “There’s too many weird textures. The mushroom is all slimy but somehow still has chunks in it. And there are so many flavours in it - why did they need to have so many flavours and ingredients?”
“Low return on investment too,” Yuna adds. “It takes you all day to make it.”
David laughs, gracious in defeat. He can always make it another day, maybe when Yuna’s extended family visit next - they all love good beef. “So I’m hearing ‘no’ on beef Wellington for Saturday lunch. Ilya, what’s your favourite? Any requests?”
David rates himself as a decent cook, at least for basic dishes. He hasn’t tried making Russian cuisine, isn’t even sure if he’s eaten any Russian food, but he’s excited to learn - Ilya must miss it after living in the US for so many years.
Ilya’s glancing back and forth between the Hollanders and looks slightly unnerved. “Everything you cook is good. I eat anything.”
“Thanks, it’s always great when someone likes my cooking. I want to make something you’ll really like eating though. I can make steak on the grill, if you still want beef. Or what about pasta? I can make a real Bolognese ragu, from scratch.”
Ilya hesitates and when he answers his voice is almost shy. “I like your chicken parmesan. One of my favourites.”
David is surprised at that. He’s been making chicken parmesan his whole life - his recipe is his mom’s - but it’s nothing special, just a simple hearty meal. He’s certain Ilya’s had fancier meals cooked by better chefs at famous restaurants. But there’s something about home cooking - his mom says the extra ingredient is love and David’s eaten enough delicious food at her table or cooked by Yuna’s father that he can’t disagree. Ilya probably doesn’t have time to cook much himself.
The summer day is glorious and David hasn’t been this nervous since he did a presentation in front of the Prime Minister. He thinks he’s more nervous today because this is more important. It reminds him of how he felt when he was first getting to know Yuna’s parents - David wants Ilya to like the Hollanders, wants Ilya to feel like he belongs in their family.
Ilya stares stunned at the ingredients on the kitchen counter. “Shashlik?”
Shane rises on his tiptoes and hooks his chin over Ilya’s shoulder so he can peer over it at the mountain of ingredients David prepared. His arm curls around Ilya so his hand rests on the front of Ilya’s hipbone. “What’s shashlik?” Shane says the word carefully, like he’s trying to get as close to Ilya’s pronunciation as possible.
“Russian dish,” Ilya explains, still staring wide-eyed. “Meat that’s marinated and grilled.” He looks at David then. “You even got metal skewers!”
“I got a Russian recipe book from the library,” David explains. “It was very clear to use lamb meat, metal skewers, lots of onions, and to marinade overnight.” He worries that the recipe is too easy - he’d just thought that he couldn’t mess up grilling meat on a skewer, hopes now that wasn’t a mistake. He hopes Ilya won’t think that David didn’t care enough to make more of an effort with making Russian food.
Instead, Ilya just breathes in deeply, savouring the seasonings in the marinade. “Best way,” he agrees. “Traditional recipe.”
“You boys want to help?”
“Yes,” Ilya says excitedly.
David smiles to himself as Shane and Ilya stand side-by-side in matching aprons, threading pieces of marinated lamb onto the skewers. Of course, they turn it into a race over who can finish the most skewers because they’re incapable of not competing.
“You’re getting slow, Rozanov,” Shane chirps, with a teasing grin. “Almost as slow as on the ice. Is it because of old age? Like Scott Hunter.”
The noise of outrage Ilya makes sounds like an angry kettle and Shane bursts out laughing. “Scott Hunter is a hundred thousand years old - and you’re older than me!” Ilya speeds up, spurred on by the comparison, and he raises both arms in triumph when the last of the skewers is done. “Finished - see, I win, not old man Hollander”
“Hm. I guess you’re faster at shashlik than you are on skates,” Shane says, pretending to pout. He’s a bad enough actor that they both dissolve into giggles. Ilya pecks a kiss onto Shane’s cheek.
The last of David’s nerves evaporates as the shashlik cooking on the grill wafts mouthwatering smells through the yard. It might have been the simplest recipe in the book but David feels a sense of achievement. Ilya looks happy as he flits back and forth between standing at the grill with David, and the table where Shane’s prepping a giant bowl of salad and Yuna’s making mimosas.
“Shane, do you want me to grill some plain chicken breasts?” David asks.
Shane glances at Ilya. “Uh. I think I’m going to have the shashlik. I want to try Russian food.”
David hides his shock. It’s the off-season but Shane is so disciplined with his diet. He focuses on getting his nutrition right, being in the best condition possible to perform up to expectations in the league. David tries not to worry about how much Shane sacrifices for hockey so it’s wonderful to see him want to share and enjoy food with someone he loves.
The smile Ilya gives Shane is so wide and bright that Shane blushes. It’s really very sweet.
“I think you will like it,” Ilya says. His voice is quieter than usual when he continues. “My mama used to make shashlik with me.”
David always remembers to text the boys and wait for a reply before going over to the cottage. Sometimes they don’t even answer until the next day - ah, young love - but today Shane opens the door before David barely even knocks and Ilya’s helping bring in all the grocery bags.
“We thought you might need some more food,” David explains. “This way you can save yourselves a trip to the grocery store.”
Shane sighs with relief. “Thanks, Dad.” Shane takes his responsibilities as a role model seriously - he talks to fans when they stop him in the street, signs autographs, poses for selfies. He gets so little time to himself, so little time to spend with Ilya. If helping with groceries spares Shane from draining himself to be polite to strangers, well, David’s happy to do it.
“Your mom bought you some more shirts,” David continues, handing over a laundry bag. “The linen ones you like. I washed them in the fragrance-free detergent.”
Ilya is grinning with delight and mischief. “Shane, you have stylist and laundry service but you make your mama and papa buy and wash your shirts?”
Shane ducks his head like he’s embarrassed but he’s smiling too. “They’re good shirts,” he mutters. “Linen is a great summer fabric.”
“Don’t think you’ve escaped the Hollander summer linen tradition, kid,” David jokes to Ilya. “We got one for you too.”
He hands over another linen shirt. It’s the same light blue that Shane likes for himself. The linen shirts aren’t from a fancy store, certainly not by a famous designer, probably not cool or fashionable. They’re just good shirts.
“For me?” Ilya accepts the neatly folded square of linen as gingerly as if it was a sleeping baby.
“Hope the size is right.” It’s the same size as Shane’s so it should be fine, considering how Shane and Ilya have been swapping clothes all summer. They’d shown up to brunch one Sunday with Shane in a Raiders T-shirt and Ilya wearing a Hollander #24 T-shirt. Yuna swatted them both, annoyed but also amused, and then went shopping to buy linen shirts.
Ilya pulls the linen shirt on, leaves it unbuttoned over his singlet. He beams at Shane. “Look! Now we’re twins.”
The living room coffee table is the best place in the Hollander cottage to do puzzles. The dining table’s bigger but the chairs aren’t as comfortable and it’s not a good space to relax. The living room is much better. Yuna’s in an armchair, typing ferociously on her laptop. David sits opposite her in the other armchair, sorting puzzle pieces. Shane naps sprawled out on the couch with his legs stretched out on Ilya’s lap.
“Want to help?” David asks, his voice pitched low so he doesn’t disturb Shane’s sleep.
Ilya looks up from where he’s smiling goofily at Shane’s sock-covered feet. “Um. I’m maybe not good.”
“No pressure,” David says easily. “It’s hard to mess up a puzzle. Shane helps me sometimes - we’ve been doing puzzles together since he was little.” He laughs quietly. “I think he thinks it’s boring but it’s just a nice thing to do together.”
Ilya looks impossibly charmed and glances at Shane, who’s drooling a little and snuffling into the loose collar of his polo shirt. David’s fairly sure the shirt is Ilya’s - the fabric is black with subtle gold piping on the hem, Raiders colours.
“What is the puzzle picture?”
David holds up the cover of the puzzle box. “‘The Kiss’ by Gustav Klimt. It’s one of my favourite paintings.”
Ilya looks at Shane again, then back at the puzzle box. “Pretty. Happy.”
“I like to think so.”
They work on the puzzle companionably for awhile, slotting pieces into place so the painting is revealed slowly. They’re accompanied by the occasional light snore from Shane, the clicking of Yuna’s keyboard, and the sound of rain from the sun shower outside. Ilya checks on Shane regularly. And that he only picks puzzle pieces with his left hand because his right is cradling one of Shane’s feet.
“Did you do puzzles with your father?” Ilya looks like he’s concentrating on the puzzle, his question a casual afterthought, but David notices the quick look he flicks at David from the corner of his eye.
“My grandpa, actually, since I was little,” David replies. “I guess that’s what made me start doing puzzles with Shane. My dad preferred fixing cars - he was a mechanic - so we mostly did that together, or play pond hockey.” He gives a quiet huff of laughter then. “And when I say we fixed cars together, he fixed the cars with tools I handed him. I never really learned more than how to change tyres and oil - left the more complicated stuff to the experts. Dad appreciated the effort though. He always said trying my best was the most important thing.”
“Mechanic is different from Treasury,” Ilya observes. “Did he want . . .?”
David hums thoughtfully. “Did Dad want me to be a mechanic? I don’t think so. Or at least he wasn’t upset that I wasn’t. I think he would’ve liked it if I'd been an engineer or something but he was so proud when I got my business degree - and he was damn proud when I did a presentation in front of the Prime Minister. He cut the photo and article out of the paper, had it framed.” David blinks away the prickling in his eyes. “Dad passed when Shane was fifteen.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you. I still miss him. Don’t think that ever stops.”
Ilya clears his throat. “My father died. Few months ago.”
“I heard. I’m sorry.”
Ilya shrugs uncomfortably, still staring down at the puzzle. “He was . . .”
An asshole, as far as David can tell. A bad man and, even worse, a bad father. He’d seen Ilya’s father at a few league events early on in Ilya’s career. Grigori Rozanov hadn’t cracked a smile and stared through everyone around him or looked at them with contempt. Ilya hadn’t been spared either. Yuna shares some of the things she suspects about Ilya’s family and finances. David fills in the blanks around things Ilya says or does - or doesn’t say and doesn’t do. He has suspicions about how Grigori Rozanov treated Ilya’s mother. Overall, he’s pretty sure that Ilya’s father was a combination of every bad thing a hockey dad could be, like he was aiming to be MVP of the worst fathers in hockey.
“I’m sorry.” David isn’t, he’s actually glad Grigoria Rozanov is dead but Ilya doesn’t need to hear him trash talk his father.
Ilya looks up then, and meets David’s eyes square on. “I liked doing the puzzle with you.”
David’s glad that it’s pretty easy to get tickets to Centaur games, even when they’re playing Boston in Ottawa. Half the seats are empty and the Cens fans look more interested in chatting to each other or looking at their phones than the hockey game about to start. It’s probably sacrilegious but David thinks he doesn’t mind the change from Montreal, at least from time to time. The atmosphere at Montreal is always rabid. Montreal loves Shane’s hockey but David doesn’t know that Montreal - either the team or the city - loves Shane. It’s too easy to imagine all that adulation turning to hate.
One of the disadvantages of a half-empty arena is that it’s easier for the jumbotron to find him. David’s usually luckier with that because he’s an old white guy in a crowd of lots of them but Shane is Ottawa’s most famous son so lots of hockey people know David’s face too. David waves, hopes the camera moves on, and that it doesn’t distract Ilya before the game.
Ilya interrupts his warmups to stare at the jumbotron zoomed in on David’s face, then turns to scan the seats like he could pick out one random person at a distance, even in this sparse crowd. But he’s a professional and there’s a game to win.
It’s not a great game. Too lopsided. Boston are too strong a team and Ottawa has heart but not the skill to be a threat. It’s a comfortable 3-0 win for Boston - Ilya scores two of the goals himself - and people are leaving their seats before the third period is half over. David stays until the last buzzer because he likes watching any kind of hockey and because it feels disrespectful to everyone playing hard on the ice to leave early. It’s the same way he stayed to the end of kindergarten school concerts to hear every last off-key warble and out of sync dance by the kids, even when Shane’s part was finished - he never understood parents that left partway through.
“Mr Hollander?”
The man who interrupts David as he gathers up his things doesn’t look like a fellow fan, either one trying to scoot past or someone who wants to talk to Shane Hollander’s dad. He’s wearing staff ID, subtle Raiders gear, and an earpiece like the bodyguards in movies who protect VIPs.
“Yes?”
“Mr Rozanov asked if you wanted to come and meet the team.”
That is a surprise. David and Yuna attend all the games the Metros played in Montreal and Ottawa but Shane doesn’t invite them to mingle with the team like other players and families do. When he was a rookie, Shane didn’t want to be the baby whose parents were always hovering like it was his first day at school. It’s less of a problem now he’s older and established and the captain but Shane’s focus narrows before a game, all distractions blocked out so he can be consumed by hockey. He has responsibilities after games too, media and checking in with the team and discussions with the coaches and trainers. Shane’s time isn’t his own so they’re used to catching up with him after games away from the rink, somewhere quiet as a reprieve from the demands of being the Shane Hollander(TM).
Ilya must be just as busy with as many demands on his time so David isn’t expecting to be ushered into the visitors’ locker room to meet the Raiders. He certainly doesn’t expect to see a team of professional hockey players, exhausted post-game, neatly dressed and waiting politely to meet him. They look like very large schoolboys.
Ilya beams. “David! They found you!” The hug he gives David isn’t the same one that he gives when the boys visit in summer but it’s more than a polite business handshake too. Ilya turns to the roomful of curious, watching Raiders and announces loudly, “This is David Hollander - he’s Shane Hollander’s dad. He is very smart and the Prime Minister of Canada listens to him about money things.”
David is reminded oddly of Shane’s first grade ‘Bring Your Parent to School’ day. Shane had told the class that David found treasure for Canada.
Cliff Marleau is the first to shake David’s hand. “It’s cool you’re helping Roz - uh, and Hollander - with their charity.”
“My wife deserves most of the credit,” David says easily. “She and Ilya and Shane are doing all the hard work. And we all appreciate you all helping out at the hockey camps next summer - the kids will love it.”
One of the new rookies - he’s twice as wide as David but has a baby face so he looks about twelve years old - looks like he’s actually shaking with excitement. “Oh man, it’s going to be so cool learning hockey from Shane Hollander.”
“From Shane Hollander?” Ilya squawks in outrage. “You should be learning from me, your captain.”
“Aw, cap!” the rookie wails, like a toddler denied an ice cream.
“The camp is for kids, not baby pro hockey players. You have trainers on the Raider, you don’t get Shane Hollander too.”
“Hey, maybe that can be your next charity thing - training camps for hockey pros,” Marleau suggests. “‘Train With Shane’. And Ilya. Man, so many guys would pay a shit ton of money for hockey tips from Shane Hollander. His backhand is so good it’s disgusting.”
Ilya sends a haughty glare at Marleau. “No. Impossible.”
Marleau just laughs, loud but not particularly mocking. “Worried they’ll beat you in the scoring race?”
It descends into typical hockey player chaos from there, chirping and cheerful insults and rough housing. David knows from being in rooms like this that everyone has something their teammates tease them about. The Raiders seem to mostly poke fun at Ilya for a goal he missed in the last Admirals game, some new hockey move he’s trying to perfect, and being surprise friends with Shane Hollander. Maybe the Raiders are especially polite - or just well trained by their PR team, since David is a stranger in their locker room - but they don’t seem particularly bothered by the thought of Ilya and Shane being friends. They’re not mean or cruel about it.
Ilya slips away from the chaos to talk to David. “Thank you for coming to watch the game.”
“You’re very welcome. Yuna sends her apologies - her best friend’s graduation ceremony is today for her JD but she’ll be at the next game.”
“The Metros play the Raiders in Boston next month,” Ilya replies immediately, as if he’s memorised the season schedule. “You and Yuna and Shane can come to dinner at my house. If you want to. If work is not too busy,” he adds hastily.
David thinks that they’d fly down to Boston even if he broke both his ankles and the Prime Minister demanded an emergency meeting. “Of course we’ll be in Boston - we always want to see our boys.”