Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov: Do you have good coffee in Canada?
Shane had gotten the man’s phone number after their second time in the junior olympics, not that he ever thought Rozanov would actually ever text him. Shane wouldn’t either, no matter how desperately he wanted to after Rozanov hadn’t show up to the draft, but he knew better. It wasn’t his business, and if Rozanov wanted out of hockey, then that was that. What Shane hadn’t expected was a random text from the man two weeks before preseason started.
Shane: yes?
Ilya Rozanov: good
Ilya Rozanov: I am in Canada
Ilya Rozanov: let’s go
Shane: where in Canada?
Ilya Rozanov: Ottawa
Ilya Rozanov: that is where you are from?
Shane: yes.
Ilya Rozanov: then tell me good coffee place
Shane: Black Sheep is good.
Ilya Rozanov: Tomorrow 10 am
That was how, somehow, Shane had possibly, but not really, agreed to have coffee with Ilya Rozanov, though he was more commanded to than actually asked. He didn’t have to go. He knew that, and yet there he was standing outside at 9:55 a.m.. By the time 10 a.m. had come around, he had almost convinced himself it was a joke. He remembered what the guys used to say about Rozanov, what he had thought of the Rozanov….
“You came,” Rozanov had somehow appeared behind him.
“Yeah,” because what else was Shane supposed to say? Rozanov nodded before heading inside without looking back to see if Shane was following. He was an asshole, Shane already knew this.
Rozanov ordered first, something Shane didn’t pay attention to as he waited in line behind him, “Hollander, Hollander,” he called, “you order now.”
“What?”
“Order. What you want?”
“Just a black coffee.”
“Size?”
“Medium,” the barista nodded, and Rozanov handed over his card, paying for both of theirs.
“You didn’t have to pay for me.”
“No trouble,” Rozanov said it seriously, like he meant it, and he needed Shane to know that he meant it. Before directing them to a small table in the back sat across from each other, both their legs angled out as to not touch.
“You missed the draft,” that was the one reason Shane has not been able to get Rozanov off his mind; he was sure of it.
Rozanov nodded slowly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The barista shouted his name, butchering ‘Ilya’ into an ‘eel-lee-ya’, who jumped to his feet. Picking up their coffee and walking back, placing Shane’s down first before taking off the top of his drink and sniffing it.
“Why?”
“What?” Rozanov wasn’t paying attention to Shane. It was starting to annoy him as Rozanov took a sip from his drink, his face scrunching up harshly, “Your coffee is like your vodka.”
“What?”
“Bleh,” Rozanov explained as his face twisting up distastefully at the flavor.
Shane laughed before he could help himself, quickly catching himself, “sorry, that was rude.”
“No,” Rozanov was smiling. Not that horrid smirk he wore in the alleyway or on the ice, but a real smile that made him look all of his terrible nineteen years old, “is okay,” his accent stumbled over ‘okay’, rounding it out to more of an ‘oke’.
“Why weren't you at the draft?”
Rozanov’s smile disappeared, and for some reason, it made Shane feel bad, “I did not want to go.”
“But you are so good at hockey.”
Rozanov smiled again, this time a smug smirk, “yes, I know. I am best.”
Shane huffed, “then why weren't you at the draft?”
“I do not like hockey.”
“How?”
Rozanov laughed, his face full of too much joy, “hockey is all they say you think of. They are right.”
The accusation made Shane’s face twist up angrily.
“Is that not right?”
“No,” Rozanov was still smiling as he took another sip from his drink, seeming to forget that he disliked it.
“What are you doing in Canada?”
“I am model now,” Ilya leaned back, “they think I am very pretty here. Want me all done up for their photos.”
Shane could understand it. The guy was inherently attractive. He was tall, muscular. He was the type of guy to make women look back a second time when they passed him on the street. With his sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and curly blonde hair just long enough to highlight his youth. His lips were prominent. He was attractive, and his features were unique. Shane thought that if he were a girl, he would find Rozanov very attractive too. Him modeling made sense.
“Do you think I am pretty?” Rozanov is leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table, and far too close to Shane as he feels discomfort growing in his stomach.
“Fuck off.”
Rozanov seemed to think this response was funny, laughing, but making no move to lean away from Shane’s space as if he wanted to intimate him.
“You are going to Montreal.”
Shane nodded.
“I will be in Ottawa,” Rozanov spoke, “I will go to Montreal too, sometimes. For work.”
Shane nodded, drinking his coffee and turning his face away from Rozanov, breaking eye contact.
“It is good city, yes?”
“Ohhh,” so that’s why Rozanov wanted to talk to him, “yeah, it's good. I mean, the people are really nice, and the food is good. There are some really cool museums.” Rozanov found this funny too.
“I hear there are slow hockey players here too,” Shane frowned, “with beautiful freckles.”
“Fuck off.”
“No,” Rozanov shook his head, “I don’t think I will.”
He reached his hand out like he was going to touch Shane’s face before letting it drop by his side.
“Why can’t you model in Russia?” Shane asked.
“I could,” but Rozanov’s face said otherwise, “but I wanted to be here.”
“In Ottawa?”
“Da, many things, museums, much boring for me to explore.”
“Fuck you, Ottawa isn’t boring.”
Rozanov raised his brow as if the idea was absurd in itself.
“It’s not.”
“Yes, it has so many museums to keep it interesting.”
Shane huffed, his arms crossing as he fell back into his seat, finally getting some distance between him and Rozanov.
“You should try to join the draft next year.”
Rozanov sighed dramatically, falling in on himself.
“What? You’re good.”
“I know, I know, I am best,” but before Shane could correct him, he started talking again, “I have no…” he looked for the word a moment, “care? want?”
“Passion?”
“Yes. No passion.”
“So you have passion for modeling instead?” It seemed like just an absurd idea to Shane. Modeling was just looking pretty in clothes one didn’t own.
He made a so-so gesture with his hand, “more clothing.”
“Fashion?”
“Yes, I model now, make clothing later,” Shane nodded. He guessed that made sense. The European men on the teams were always well dressed, and Rozanov was no exception, except he wasn’t on a team anymore. “You want to skate forever, yes?”
“I mean, yeah,” Shane looked down at his cup, “I will retire someday when I am old.”
“Yes, old Hollander.”
“But I— I want to play for now,” he nodded, “for as long as I can.”
Rozanov nodded, his eyes focusing on the window behind Shane, then on Shane once more. Really looking at him. Giving Shane as much of an up and down as he possibly could while they were both still sitting.
“You are wearing blue.”
“Yeah,” Shane looked down at his blue sweatshirt.
“You like the color blue?”
“I guess.”
“You wear it every time I see you,” which had only been three times, but Shane hadn’t realized he always wore the same thing.
“I like this sweatshirt.”
“It looks good on you,” Rozanov was fiddling with his cup before he took another sip, “very pretty.”
“It is a basic sweatshirt.”
“Brings out your freckles.”
“Okay,” because Shane wasn’t sure how to take that. He had never had another man bring them up before, Rozanov had done so twice now. His ex-girlfriend, Jessica, mentioned them once, but it wasn’t ever anything that bordered on a compliment like this seemed to, it was almost fond the way Rozanov said them.
“They are very pretty,” Rozanov continued, “your freckles.”
“Fuck off,” Shane didn’t know what else to say, and he didn’t know why the blush rose to his cheeks other than to assume it was in indignant anger, but that didn’t explain the foreign stir in his stomach.
“I can see them better now,” Rozanov chirped, raising his hand across the table and doing the unthinkable, feeling Shane’s freckles and caressing his cheek in public. And, for whatever reason, Shane allowed it. Rozanov’s hand pulled back and returned to his cup.
He finished his coffee. He drank all of it without any other complaints. Shane suspected he just liked to complain.