Chapter Text

Реджайна, Декабрь 2008

Hollander.

Ilya knows he would have seen him here sooner or later. He’d even planned to watch one of Team Canada’s practices in the next few days – but he thought he’d have more time before then. And maybe, somewhat naively, he had been hoping he could avoid him off the ice entirely.

Of course, Ilya has no such luck.

Hollander appears out of nowhere, despite Ilya going out of his way to avoid him. One moment, Ilya is looking down and struggling against the wind to light his cigarette, the next he’s looking back up at Hollander, standing only a few meters away from him.

At least, Ilya tries to console himself, Hollander appears to be equally caught off guard.

It’s not a good consolation at all. Alongside the startled look, Ilya can’t help but notice absolutely everything else about Hollander too.

His hair is hidden under a soft-looking beanie. He’s wearing a hoodie and a winter coat, no scarf. Hollander looks a little taller, a little broader. Less scrawny now. His skin is paler than Ilya remembers, and so are his freckles. But the prominent line of dots under his right eye is still exactly where it’s always been, and clear enough for Ilya to make out even from a distance.

A distance that feels smaller than it did a moment ago.

Ilya doesn’t remember moving.

Hollander’s eyes are on him, gaze warm enough to make Ilya forget about the freezing wind for a few heartbeats.

“You shouldn’t be smoking here,” Hollander says, tearing Ilya out of whatever weird trance he’d put him under.

Hollander is biting his lips and Ilya should look away. He should walk away. He should… say something, probably. It takes him way too long to find any words, and when he does, all that comes out of his mouth is “Cold.”

Great job, Ilya, you fucking idiot. Very eloquent of you.

Ilya takes another drag of his cigarette for lack of anything else to say, mildly embarrassed (not that he’d ever admit it). Hollander slowly nods in response and keeps staring.

The howling of the wind fills the silence between them. Still, it grows and grows and feels like it’s pulling at his skin, like Ilya will snap and tear if he doesn’t find anything to say in the next few seconds.

He settles on “I thought your team has practice now,” sounding nonchalant and leaning his head back against the wall behind him.

Deep down, Ilya wants to kick himself. Does Hollander know Ilya looked up Team Canada’s practice schedule? Does he know Ilya hurried through his shower and packed up his gear as fast as he could in order to be out of the rink before Hollander’s team showed up?

No.

Hollander exhales. His breath briefly fogs up the air before the wind whips in and carries it away. There’s a voice in the back of Ilya’s head, wondering what it would have felt like against his skin and he tries his best to ignore it.

“Just needed a moment,” Hollander says then, slowly. “Too many variables.”

Warmth spreads through Ilya’s chest, and he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his lips. “You are the same,” he says, a little smug.

Hollander’s brows furrow. There is a flash of emotion in his eyes, disrupting the flat expression on his face for just a second. Ilya can see the way Hollander tries to school his face, but doesn’t quite manage. It all registers with painful clarity. The slight twitch of Hollander's lids, and the way he bites his lips again.

Hollander opens his mouth, like there’s something he wants to say –

Then he closes it again.

The cigarette burns down in Ilya’s hands and he drops it before it can fuck up his fingers, grinding it out against the pavement. His eyes land back on Hollander the second he looks back up.

Hollander looks like he’s seen something. Something in Ilya’s own eyes, in his posture, his behavior. Some kind of realization.

The thought makes Ilya’s heart speed up and his chest tighten. He feels naked in the cold and suddenly there are a thousand words on his tongue, just waiting for him to slip up and slide out.

With his teeth clenched tightly, Ilya forces out the words, “See you on the ice.”

Only when Hollander replies “Yeah. See you,” does Ilya manage to move his feet.

One step after the other – do not run.

He moves past Hollander, almost close enough to touch, and around the corner and toward where the Team Russia bus must surely be waiting by now.

But even with the growing distance between them, Ilya still feels the hooks pulling at his skin, sharp and tight. The sensation makes him turn his head just so.

Behind him, Hollander’s head is turning as well.

Ilya catches a glimpse of his dark, curious eyes before snapping his gaze back forward again.

Fuck.

*****

When Ilya gets on the bus, a few of the guys are already there, talking over each other in the back. He lets himself drop into his seat next to Kolya with a little more force than necessary.

Kolya glances over. “What’s up with your face?”

“What’s up with it?”

“You look weird.”

Ilya leans back in his seat. “Got told off for smoking.”

Kolya snorts and shakes his head. “Fucking Canadians.”

A few seconds pass before Kolya opens his mouth again. “We saw some of the Team Canada guys earlier when we got on the bus. Have you seen Hollander yet?”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

Easy.

Kolya hums. “Too bad. I’m kind of curious to see if he’s changed at all.”

Ilya flexes his fingers, still stiff from the cold, and stares at the fogged-up window. Then he makes himself smirk, “Probably still just as annoying.”

It earns him a short laugh from Kolya. “Already scared he’ll be reading your mind again, ruin all your moves?” Kolya asks with a grin.

Something about the way Kolya says it makes it feel like the words are lodging themselves under Ilya’s ribcage. He forces a laugh, “Oh, please. Hollander wishes.”

Kolya chuckles.

The bus starts moving. Wet gear, cold air, cheap deodorant. Loud voices from the back. Everything exactly as it should be.

Inside, he feels off.

*********************************************

Regina, December 2008

Practice had been challenging.

That’s what Shane would say, if anyone asked, because he’s polite and media-trained. His mother had made sure of that. She herself, on the other hand, while perfectly capable of politeness and well-versed in handling media, is sometimes prone to bouts of passion (– at least that is what his dad calls it). So, depending on who asked, Coach Yuna Hollander might be a lot less shy about calling it a complete shit show.

She’s not officially part of Team Canada’s staff, but she tagged along to Regina to support her son. And if she’s here already, why not offer a few very valuable insights?

The team has only been playing together for a few days, so a few hiccups are expected. But today's practice had gone... poorly. Far beyond the “room for improvement” one of their assistant coaches had mentioned.

Shane is infinitely glad that night when he closes the hotel room door behind him. He survived dinner with his team and a lecture from his mother. His roommate isn’t back yet.

Good.

He could have taken his parents up on the offer to pay for a separate room for him, but getting any kind of team cohesion in their current situation is already difficult enough without the captain sequestering himself away from the rest of the players.

Shane’s laptop is sitting where he left it, in his suitcase. He pulls it out, sets it down on the little hotel room desk and boots it up. After misspelling the hotel’s WiFi password twice, he finally manages to connect to the internet.

There is a ding and the little chat window starts blinking furiously. Shane debates opening it for a moment. One the one hand he is absolutely exhausted – and on the other, he’d made a promise.

He exhales.

Then clicks.

At that, Shane’s fingers lift off the keyboard. He clenches his hands.

The message sits there for a moment. He stares at it.

Shane takes a deep breath. Holds it for a few beats. Then exhales. Something in him twists, sharp and unpleasant.

The weird feeling doesn’t go away. Shane doesn’t stay online for much longer. His roommate shows up and it’s way past time for him to go to bed anyway.

He shuts the laptop, then heads into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Shane replies to a last text from his mother before turning off his bedside table lamp.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

*****

The training rink is small and quiet. Kind of dumpy, to be honest. The actual tournament games will be held in a larger arena downtown.

Shane is sitting a few rows above the penalty box, next to his mother. There are several other people in the stands, watching the practice. Staff, media, a handful of curious players from other teams, family members who took it upon themselves to travel all the way to Canada with the team, local hardcore hockey fans – and, definitely, scouts.

As soon as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice, the Russian team is on it, skates immediately cutting the smooth surface back up. The sound carries up into the rafters and mixes with the ever-present echo inside Shane’s head.

Shane leans forward against the railing, arms folded, watching the coaches yell out instructions in Russian. He’s not sure if it’s the language or the tone, but he is instantly reminded of Coach Kharlamov.

Next to him, his mother doesn’t sit. She never does. “They’re too spread out,” she says less than a minute after the drill starts, her voice low but precise. “Look at their spacing in transition. Weak structure.”

Shane hums quietly in acknowledgment.

On the ice, Team Russia resets the drill. A defenseman fumbles a pass at the blue line, recovers, sends it back down low. The forwards cycle, fast and loose, adjusting on instinct more than anything else.

“They rely too much on improvisation,” Yuna continues. “It works when they’re faster than everyone else, but it won’t hold under pressure.”

Shane nods again.

He’s only half watching the drill.

The practice jerseys don’t have names or numbers, but Shane finds him easily.

Rozanov is skating along the boards, cutting inside with a quick shift of his weight, the puck pretty much glued to his stick. Same posture. Same grip. Same everything. Maybe a little stronger now, a little more controlled in the way he leans into his turns.

He finishes the play with a sharp shot – clean, fast, just inside the post.

Then he pumps his fist into the air. - Same arrogance.

Shane exhales slowly.

“Still showy,” Yuna comments. “He’d do better to focus on his edgework.”

Shane doesn’t reply.

On the ice, Rozanov circles back, coasting for a moment as the drill resets again.

Then –

Rozanov lifts his head.

His eyes sweep the stands, and for a second, Shane thinks, hopes, that he’ll simply pass over them. Scan the crowd. Move on.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Rozanov’s gaze settles on Shane.

And then –

He grins.

Crooked and familiar, in a way that makes it hard for Shane to breathe for a few beats.

Down in the rink, Rozanov looks smug. Pleased.

Like he hadn't been in the stands himself just yesterday.

Watching Team Canada.

Watching Shane.

After a few long moments, Rozanov is the first to look away, attention returning to the ice like nothing happened.

Next to Shane, his mother continues as if she didn’t notice anything at all. “If you force him into a corner, he’ll overcorrect,” she says. “He commits too early.”

Shane notes how she never mentioned a name, but it’s clear to both of them who she is talking about. He nods, a beat too late. “Yeah.”

Practice carries on. Drills repeat, lines rotate, whistles cut through the air. Shane keeps his focus where it should be – tracking plays, noting patterns, listening when his mother speaks.

But he feels it anyway.

A strange kind of awareness, constant and sharp, just at the edge of his mind.

When practice finally winds down, the energy in the arena shifts. Coaches call out last instructions as players coast to a stop, sticks tapping against the ice.

Yuna straightens. “I’ll go say hello.” It’s not a question.

Shane’s stomach drops, but he still nods. “Okay.”

He doesn’t follow. He stays where he is, chewing on the string of his hoodie and watching as his mother makes her way down toward the bench.

On the ice, a few of the Russian players linger. Rozanov is among them, helmet off now, pushing his hair back as he listens to one of the coaches talk. Shane looks away fast. His eyes land on Galkin, standing a few feet away and laughing with another player, easy and relaxed.

They both notice his mother approach. Their posture shifts immediately. Respectful. Attentive.

Shane watches them finish their conversations, and skate up to the boards to meet her.

There’s a brief exchange of handshakes. Shane watches as Galkin says something that makes his mother's mouth twitch, almost a smile. Rozanov stands a little to the side at first, then comes closer after a few beats when she turns to address him directly.

Shane half expects her to start doling out feedback, head tilted and hands gesturing sharply. But she doesn’t. Or if she does, then it’s in a completely different way than Shane is used to seeing.

Still, Yuna keeps talking, and Rozanov and Galkin listen. When Galkin responds to something, Rozanov’s eyes drift past her, up to where Shane is still sitting.

No grin this time. Not even a smile.

Shane feels pinned into place by his gaze.

His heart kicks once, hard.

Air catches in his lungs.

It only lasts a second, then Rozanov looks away again, like it doesn’t matter.

Like none of it does.

Shane bites down hard on his hoodie string, breaking the little plastic cap.

A moment later, his mother nods once, concluding the conversation. She says something in parting – short, decisive – and the two of them respond in kind before stepping back.

Then she turns, making her way back up the steps.

By the time she reaches him again, Shane has dropped the hoodie string and straightened his spine, expression neutral.

“He’s still sloppy,” she says, adjusting her coat. She's not talking about Galkin, even though the criticism could also apply to him.

Shane exhales through his nose. “He’s still good.”

“Not as good as you.” Her tone is even. Certain.

Shane doesn’t answer.

*****

Regina, January 2009

The next time Shane sees Rozanov is when they step onto the ice for the final.

Canada vs. Russia.

The noise in the arena dips as the linesman settles at center ice, the crowd’s focus tightening into something almost tangible, but Shane has never paid much attention to that. It’s one of those rare moments in which his head goes completely quiet and Shane focuses on that instead. He takes a deep breath before dropping into position – center of gravity lowered, stick angled just so.

Across from him, Rozanov mirrors the posture.

Of course he does.

For a second, neither of them moves. Just watching. Shane shifts his weight – barely – and Rozanov adjusts his grip in response. They both know.

The puck drops.

Shane pulls left, clean, snapping it back before Rozanov can fully counter. For a fraction of a second, something sharp and satisfied settles in his chest.

Then the play moves.

The game turns harder, faster than he expected. Russia doesn’t play like they did in that practice before the tournament started. Their gaps are tighter now, their structure cleaner – but there’s something else underneath it. More contact. Sticks lingering a second too long. A shove after the whistle that looks accidental if you’re not paying attention.

Shane notices.

Of course he does.

Team Canada struggles to break through the neutral zone, and Shane compensates. Carrying more than he should, picking up speed, holding onto the puck longer, forcing plays where there aren’t any. It almost works.

Almost.

He cuts inside, slipping past one defender before a second steps up, too clean – stick on puck, perfectly timed – and then a shoulder catches him just a fraction late. Not enough for a call, but enough to throw him off balance.

The puck is gone.

Shane recovers immediately, already turning, already tracking the play back the other way, something about the movement catching and holding in his mind.

It's familiar.

Next shift, it happens again. Same pressure. Same timing. The same defender closes the gap before Shane can accelerate into it, angling him off just enough to kill the play – and then it clicks.

Nizhny Novgorod. The exhibition tournament in St. Petersburg.

Different jersey. Same habits. Better execution.

Shane exhales sharply.

Of course that guy would have a bone to pick with him.

Between shifts and plays and penalties, there are moments – small and sharp – where it feels like nothing has changed. Like he's sixteen again and it's the height of summer. Shane cuts toward open ice and Rozanov is already there. A passing lane opens and closes just as quickly, a stick intercepting clean. Shane adjusts, shifts direction, tries again – this time he gets through.

Barely.

The pressure builds. Canada pushes. Russia absorbs. Every time Shane finds space, it closes a second too quickly. Every time he slows, someone leans into him – subtle, constant, just enough to wear him down.

It breaks off a turnover.

Quick. Messy. A stick lifts a fraction too high, a shove into the boards that doesn’t get called – Canada loses control for just a second.

It’s enough.

Rozanov picks up the puck near center ice, and there’s space.

Shane is already moving.

He knows where he’s going – left, then cut inside, same as before – and he closes the gap, angle tightening, timing it –

Almost.

Rozanov shifts earlier this time. Not the same pattern. Not quite. Just enough.

Shane’s stick catches nothing but air.

The last defender is already behind the play.

The shot is clean.

The goal inevitable.

The sound hits a second later.

Shane slows, turning just enough to track the puck in the net, his chest tight – but he’s not surprised. Not really.

Next shift, he meets Rozanov along the boards. This time he doesn’t hold back. The contact is solid, harder than before, shoulder driven through with intent. Rozanov absorbs it, skates digging into the ice, and shoves back just as controlled, just as deliberate.

For a second, they’re close enough – breath, heat, recognition.

Rozanov narrow his eyes at Shane, quick and sharp. “Still too slow,” he says, that stupid crooked grin flashing briefly before he’s gone again.

Shane pushes even harder after that, forcing plays, taking risks he normally wouldn’t. He gets hooked once – no call. A stick rides up under his gloves – no call. It almost works anyway.

But it isn’t enough.

The final buzzer cuts through everything and leaves his ears ringing.

Even after it cuts off, the noise in the arena continues to swell and roar, louder and louder with every passing second.

Team Russia spills onto the ice, harsh and noisy, gloves in the air, sticks raised, bodies colliding. The celly is messy in a way their game had not been, but just as physical. Contained chaos finally let loose.

Shane turns away before he has to see too much of it. They don’t celebrate for long. Not really.

It’s quick – noticeably so. Like someone flipped a switch. Players separate, helmets get adjusted, gloves get picked back up. A few last pats on the back, a few words exchanged. Then they line up. Order restored.

Shane recognizes it for what it is.

Sportsmanship. Optics. Respect for the game.

He doesn’t feel any of it.

The line moves slowly.

Hands get shaken. Brief eye contact. Mumbled words Shane doesn’t register or doesn’t understand. His body moves on autopilot – hand out, grip, release, next.

Around them, cameras flash.

Constant. Bright. Intrusive.

The media had put a lot of effort into building up friction over the course of the whole tournament. They must love this. Canada versus Russia. Hollander versus Rozanov. Rivalry. A straightforward, simple narrative for something that feels more complicated than it has any right to.

Shane keeps his face neutral as he shakes hand after hand.

Then –

Rozanov.

He’s still a little flushed from the game, hair damp where it’s sticking out from under his helmet, mouth curved in something that Shane wouldn’t actually consider to be a smile.

It happens again. Just like on the ice. Up close, everything is worse. Intense. Sharp. Familiar in a way Shane wishes it wasn’t.

Their eyes meet, and for a split second it’s like they’re still standing in the Ice Palace in Moscow, still circling around each other, still –

No.

He shuts it down.

“Congratulations,” Shane says tersely and sticks out his hand.

Rozanov’s mouth tilts into a smirk. He grips Shane’s hand and pulls him in closer. Shane’s breath catches in his lungs.

“See you at the draft,” Rozanov says, before dropping his hand and moving on like nothing happened.

The rest of the line passes in a blur.

More hands. More faces. More words that don’t stick.

By the time it’s over, Shane’s jaw aches from how tightly he’s been holding his expression in place.

The medal is heavier than he expects.

Or maybe that’s just the weight of his own disappointment as it settles against his chest – cold metal, thin ribbon, something that’s supposed to mean pride.

Silver.

Second.

Not enough.

They stand in formation.

Team Russia across from them.

The arena quiets down again, but not in the same way as before. Not focus, but ceremony. Expectation. The first notes of the Russian anthem fill the space, and Shane stares straight ahead.

He doesn’t look at any of them.

He doesn’t look at Rozanov.

He doesn’t –

He does.

Just for a second.

Across the ice, Rozanov is already looking back at him.

The realization cuts through his mind along with the sound of skates scraping over ice.

Every face-off.

Every shift.

Every time.

Shane looks away first.

His chest feels tight, something coiling low and hot, equal parts anger and something he refuses to name.

Was it just the game?

Or –

*********************************************

*****

*************************

Ottawa, January 2009

Shane watches the tape.

Again.

He doesn’t need to. He already knows what happens. The sequence is familiar enough now that he could reconstruct it just from memory – timing, spacing, the exact moment a play shifts.

Still, he rewinds.

Plays it again.

The first few times, it was clean. Structured. He even took notes. Positions, angles, gaps, movements through the different zones. Things that could have been adjusted. Things that definitely should have been adjusted.

Pause. Rewind. Replay.

Shane is looking for something, there has to be something he missed.

But even slowing it down, going frame by frame – he can’t find it.

He looks at different plays from different angles. With every rewatch, another possibility gets layered over what already happened. Hypothetical versions where passes connect or get intercepted, where the defense reorganizes, where a check lands differently.

On and on.

Shane can’t find it – the big something that he could have done differently to turn the tide in their favor.

“You can’t be a whole team all by yourself,” his mother had told him at one point.

Sometimes he hates that she’s right.

Still, Shane exhales slowly, then runs the tape again.

But now, his attention is starting to shift. Gradually, with every passing frame, his focus gets absorbed.

By Rozanov.

The way he moves over the ice. The way he commits early, like he already knows how it’s going to play out. No hesitation. No adjustments once he decides.

Shane rewinds again.

He watches as they line up for a face-off. They’re mirrored at center ice, sticks down, weight shifted forward. Still for a fraction of a second before the puck drops.

Shane pauses the video.

He’s stuck on the way Rozanov looks at him.

And the way he himself looks back.

His breath catches.

He hadn’t noticed that before.

Or maybe he had.

He rewinds.

Again.

Suddenly, it’s all he can see throughout the entire game.

Not the play. Not the structure. Just – that.

The way Rozanov’s grip shifts slightly. The angle of his shoulders. The exact moment he reacts. And the way he looks.

Over and over. With each repetition, something tightens in his chest, just a little more, subtle but persistent.

This isn’t useful. It’s not analysis anymore.

Shane reaches for the remote, pressing pause with way more force than necessary this time.

The screen freezes mid-frame.

Again, it’s Rozanov, looking straight at him.

Shane swallows.

Fine.

Maybe there isn’t one big thing he could have changed. But Shane can work with that.

More structure. More discipline. No wasted movement, no loose space, no hesitation. If Rozanov commits like he already knows how the play ends, then Shane will learn to get there first.

He looks at the frozen image on the screen again.

Rozanov’s eyes are fixed on him. Even through the grainy video, even from across the ice, the attention feels direct enough to press beneath Shane’s ribs.

Shane’s grip tightens around the remote.

It doesn’t matter.

He presses play.

*************************

Москва, Январь 2009

A few days and some truly excellent victory parties later, things are pretty much back to normal for Ilya. Pretty much, because Regina had fucked up one small but important thing: Ilya has yet to manage pushing Hollander back out of his mind.

The season continues, and so does their practice schedule. The Ice Palace is exactly as he’d left it, the smell of wax in the corridors and his teammates talking shit in the locker room. Kirya punches Kolya in the arm when he brings up the WJC yet again. On the ice, Kharlamov is yelling his head off about something or other, whistles are cutting through the noise, pucks are flying into the net.

They have a game against Dynamo in a few days and Ilya can’t wait. One of their wingers had made it onto Team Russia and he’d been annoying the fuck out of Ilya for the entire duration of training camp and the tournament.

It will be the cherry on top of the championship gold medal – beating that guy’s team.

But that is for the future. The present is slightly less satisfying, as Zhukov directs the team through the next drill. Quick transition through the neutral zone, puck support, finish at the net. Simple.

Ilya takes the pass coming his way in stride and cuts inside on instinct.

– Wrong.

The thought lands before he fully knows where it came from.

Hollander would read that immediately.

Ilya pulls the puck back a fraction, shifts wider instead, waits half a beat longer before sending it across.

The play opens cleanly after that. Easy finish.

Zhukov’s eyebrows lift, which is probably as close to impressed as he ever gets.

How annoying.

Ilya circles back into line, his jaw tight.

The drill resets. Ilya is pushing the pace early. Tóth is coming toward him and this time the correction comes almost instantly – too obvious, too eager, too easy to close off.

Instead of pulling left toward Kirya, Ilya cuts to the right.

It works.

By the third time it happens, it starts to feel less like an interruption and more like a different kind of instinct.

Not his own, exactly. – Or maybe now it is.

Ilya returns to set up at center, breathing hard. He flexes his hands on his stick, then spins it around once.

Okay then.

Fine.

Ignoring Hollander hadn’t worked so far, and probably won’t magically start working now.

But if he insists on sticking around, then Ilya might as well use him.

After that, checking Hollander’s stats becomes routine. Box scores, highlights, prospect rankings, whatever he can find without looking too hard.

It’s relevant. Useful.

That’s all.

*****

Any hope Ilya might have had for a quiet Sunday dinner gets crushed the moment Polina sets the last pot down at the table.

His father starts talking about hockey – obviously. About the KHL, newly established and already, according to him, destined to surpass the NHL before long. The Americans have money and marketing, he says, but Russia has real players. Real hockey. Real history.

Ilya keeps his eyes on his plate.

His father moves on to contracts, prestige, loyalty. To how boys with sense will stop running to North America once they understand where the game is really going. Andrei nods along.

Then the conversation shifts. To Regina. To the World Juniors. To the gold medal sitting on Ilya’s desk.

“You won. Good – but that was supposed to happen.” His father leans back in his chair, one hand resting against his glass. “Junior medals are the baseline for a player like you. Don’t start confusing the baseline with the finish line.”

Heat sparks under Ilya’s skin.

His father keeps going, tone calm, almost casual. “This is when players get comfortable. They win once, people praise them too much, and suddenly they think they’ve done something special. That’s how they waste themselves.”

Ilya’s grip tightens around his fork.

“I’m not comfortable,” he says.

His father glances at him. “Then do not get lazy.”

Just like that.

Ilya takes a sip of water instead of saying any of the things rising sharp and acidic in his throat. The conversation moves on around him – back to the KHL, to money, to June without anyone actually acknowledging the NHL draft.

He stops listening halfway through a sentence and doesn’t tune back in again.

By the time dinner is over, something sour has settled under his ribs.

It stays there all night.

It’s there while he brushes his teeth, while he undresses, while he lies awake staring into the dark. His father’s voice keeps replaying, flat and certain and impossible to argue with after the fact because none of it had sounded cruel enough at the time. Just practical.

The worst kind.

When Ilya wakes the next morning, the feeling is still there.

So he gets dressed and leaves before he can think too hard about where he’s going.

The cemetery is quiet in the way only winter can make things quiet.

Snow lies in thin, uneven patches between the graves, grey at the edges where people have stepped through it. The cold bites at his face. Ilya shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and keeps walking.

He knows the way without thinking about it.

By the time he stops in front of her grave, his throat feels tight.

For a while, he just stands there.

The headstone is familiar. Her name. The date. The little gold-colored cross someone added years ago. Just like the one she wore on her necklace. Ilya can feel it rest against his collarbone under his clothes.

He reaches forward, carefully brushes the snow off the top of the stone.

When he’s done, the silence settles back in.

He stares at her name.

The right words don’t come.

They rarely do, even here.

Ilya spends so much of his life holding things in his mouth without saying them that sometimes it feels like he’s forgotten how to speak plainly at all. At dinner. In the locker room. With coaches. With reporters. With people who should know him better than they do.

He exhales through his nose, watching the breath disappear into the cold.

“We won,” he says at last.

His own voice sounds strange out here.

He looks down at the frozen ground, then back up.

“Gold.”

The word hangs there between him and the stone.

“It was expected, apparently,” he says after a while.

A pause.

“I know.”

Of course he knows.

He knows what is expected of him in a way other people probably never will. It’s in everything. Every practice, every shift, every conversation about his future that somehow sounds decided before he’s even opened his mouth.

His eyes drift briefly to the dates again.

Then, quieter, “I thought you’d want to know.”

That’s all.

Nothing dramatic follows. Just the same silence as before, except now it feels steadier somehow.

Ilya lingers for another few minutes before he turns to leave. By the time he reaches the cemetery gate, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Andrei.

Ilya looks at the screen for a second.

Then slides the phone back into his pocket.

*************************

Ottawa, February 2009

Shane stares at the laptop in front of him.

The chat window is already open. Radoslav and Volkin are both online.

The cursor blinks.

He pauses.

Re-reads it.

Too generic.

He deletes it, then tries again.

His jaw tightens.

That’s worse.

More specific – too specific.

Radek and Volkin would probably know immediately.

Shane clears the message.

The cursor keeps blinking.

He exhales and types again.

Too vague again.

He adds to it.

He studies the words.

Safer.

But – still not useful.

His fingers flex against the keyboard as he types again.

He stills.

Reads it once. Then again.

His finger hovers over the enter key.

Too much.

He deletes it all.

The chat goes blank.

For a moment, he just watches the cursor blink.

Then, slower this time:

The words land heavier than anything before.

Shane stares at them.

No hockey. No framing. No distance.

Nowhere to hide.

He hits backspace.

The message disappears letter by letter.

After a few seconds, he closes the window and shuts the laptop.

They would have questions.

Too many.

Shane bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He’ll figure it out.

He always does.

*************************

Москва, Март 2009

The girl underneath him makes a soft, pleased sound. Ilya shifts slightly, precise and deliberate.

Easy.

For the most part, Ilya has never had much trouble keeping things where they belong. Hockey is hockey. Sex is sex. He knows how to want things like this, knows how to do this. It’s simple. Manageable. He knows how to read her, and his body follows without hesitation, adjusting rhythm, pressure, angle just right.

Usually, that’s enough.

And it is – until she looks up at him.

That’s normal. It’s what people do.

And Ilya – meets her gaze.

And that is where it slips.

Hollander.

Ilya’s jaw tightens.

No.

His pace doesn’t falter as he looks away, refocusing on the little noises she makes, the laboured rhythm of her breathing. This – right here – is what’s real. This is what he’s doing.

Not that.

That’s the whole point.

Hollander belongs somewhere else now. On the ice, in box scores, in highlight clips, in the part of Ilya’s head reserved for things he can actually use.

Not here.

He adjusts, sharper now, more intent, like he can force the thought out through sheer precision.

It should work.

The girl seems to like it.

The thought doesn’t move.

Still there. Persistent. Wrong.

Seriously?

Irritation burns under Ilya’s skin. He keeps going, because what else is he supposed to do? Outwardly, nothing changes. That part still works.

Internally, Hollander stays exactly where he shouldn’t.

The girl smiles at him after, exhausted and satisfied.

Easy.

Everything about this should have stayed easy.

But Hollander doesn’t go away.

That’s a problem.

*************************

Ottawa, April 2009

Shane tries to be present in the moment.

He really, really does.

This should work. There is no reason for it not to.

Unfortunately, despite all his discipline, it’s not working out.

He’s too aware of all the things that are absent from this situation.

Jessica is beautiful. The whole team thinks so, and Shane agrees. But he knows the other boys didn’t come to that conclusion in the same way he did. They look at her, and they just know.

Shane, on the other hand, looks at her and feels like he’s on a field trip to a museum. Like he’s looking at a piece of art his teacher tasked him to analyze the composition of. Long hair, dark eyes, tanned skin. Her face is incredibly symmetrical, flawless. It seems the corners of her lips are always lightly turned up. And even her teeth are perfect.

He catalogs it automatically. Feature by feature. Evidence collected, evaluated, filed.

Jessica is beautiful.

That part is not in question.

His own opinion on girls had always depended on critical analysis and the opinions of those around him. Up until recently, he hadn’t even noticed. But recently, he became painfully aware.

Because Shane noticed that he doesn’t look at boys the same way. There was a new guy behind the counter at his local coffee shop. And Shane had walked in on a random Wednesday morning, seen him and thought, oh, he’s pretty.

No analysis. No confirmation needed. Just – there.

It’s a pattern that kept repeating and repeating – and now he’s here. Sitting at a table with beautiful, beautiful Jessica, waiting for the same kind of certainty to appear.

It should.

He tries to focus. Watches the way her fingers wrap around her glass when she talks. The way her necklace shifts slightly when she leans forward. The faint line of her collarbone.

This should be enough.

He waits.

Nothing happens.

Shane even tries staring at her cleavage for a moment (probably not subtle at all), like he’s missed something obvious the first time around. Like the answer might be hidden in plain sight.

But nothing changes. His heartbeat remains steady.

There is no pull. No urgency. No instinct telling him to lean closer, to touch, to –

Just absence.

He’s not missing anything.

There’s just nothing there.

*************************

Москва, Апрель 2009

It’s late. Sveta was already asleep – usually, she’d complain about him for waking her.

She doesn’t, now.

Ilya stands in her doorway and she just looks at him.

No questions. No words at all. Just a few seconds of quiet observation before she steps aside to let him in. He toes off his sneakers, the door closing softly behind him.

Sveta’s arms wrap around him from behind, palms settling at his waist, her face pressed between his shoulder blades. Her breath is warm through his shirt.

She hugs him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Ilya lets her.

She doesn’t make him turn around.

It’s the same kind of hug she gave him after the first time his brother hit him. After the first big game he lost. After his mother died.

Times where he didn’t want her to see his face.

He was crying then.

He isn’t now.

Still – there must be something in his expression. Something he’s giving away without meaning to. Sveta sees it, but she doesn’t take it from him. Not like this.

After a while, she loosens her grip. They go upstairs without speaking. Ilya strips down to his boxers before slipping under the covers. She briefly rests a hand on his arm before settling beside him.

Not long after her breathing evens out.

Ilya stares up at the ceiling.

The room is dark, but he can still make out the faint outlines where glow-in-the-dark stars used to be. Sveta peeled them off years ago, but the shapes never fully disappeared.

He keeps looking at them anyway.

They remind him of freckles.

Fucking annoying.

Just because the stars are gone, doesn’t mean Ilya doesn’t still see them when he looks up.

Hollander is like that now too, apparently.

Not everywhere. Not all the time.

Just enough.

Enough to get under his skin when he isn’t expecting it. Enough to make him tense up like it still matters every time it happens. Enough to turn into a whole fucking battle in his own head if he lets it.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then opens them again.

Ignoring it doesn’t work. He knows that now. Trying to force it out or into a specific shape doesn’t work either.

Fine.

Then maybe he doesn’t need to do either.

Maybe Hollander can stay where he stays.

Maybe Ilya just needs to stop turning it into something bigger every time it slips through.

The thought sits strangely in his chest.

Not relief, exactly. Nothing that clean.

Just less noise.

Sveta shifts slightly beside him in her sleep, her hand brushing his arm for a second before going still again.

Ilya keeps staring at the ceiling.

The marks where the stars used to be don’t disappear.

They also don’t move.

After a while, his breathing evens out to match Sveta’s.

For now, that’s enough.

*************************

Ottawa, May 2009

Shane keeps observing.

Not on purpose, not at first, but – it just keeps happening.

It isn’t dramatic. There’s no single moment he can point to, no sudden realization that shifts everything into place. It’s quieter than that. More subtle.

Consistent.

A pattern.

Now that he’s aware of it, he can’t stop noticing. The way his attention moves without his input, how it settles on certain details without effort – how it lingers, sometimes, without him meaning it to.

And the way it doesn’t.

A girl laughs somewhere to his left in the hallway at school, bright and sharp, and Shane looks up automatically. Registers the sound. The shape of it. The fact that other people turn their heads, that someone nearby nudges his friend and says something under his breath.

Shane looks too.

Of course he does.

But it feels – delayed. Like he’s following a cue instead of reacting to it.

Later, at practice, one of the guys pulls his helmet off and runs a hand through his hair, sweat damp at the edges, sticking slightly to his skin.

Shane notices that immediately.

Without thinking.

It would be easier if it were random.

If it shifted. If it changed depending on context, mood, proximity.

It doesn’t.

But all of that is just – metadata, basically.

Observations. Data points. Correlations without confirmed causation.

Not enough to draw an acceptable conclusion.

And maybe it wasn’t like that in the first place.

It’s been almost two years.

Memory isn’t reliable. It distorts, exaggerates, fills in gaps with whatever fits best. Especially when there’s nothing solid to anchor it.

Maybe Shane is just – remembering it wrong.

That would make sense.

It would explain why nothing changes.

Not when he ignores it. Not when he tries to redirect it.

Shane exhales slowly, staring off into space.

It stays the same.

The thought sits with him longer this time. Not pushed away, not dismissed immediately. Just – held there, examined from a distance.

Not a conclusion. Not yet.

But not nothing either.

So he has to treat it like a relevant variable.

Account for it. Factor it in.

Construct a new hypothesis.

*************************