Chapter Text
Scores were tied. 2 - 2. The arena hummed with intensity. It was the third period and neither team was showing any signs of tiring or backing down.
Ilya and Shane were facing off. They had been professional all night, taking the game seriously. They both wanted to win and were treating each other like any other opponent.
Until.
They hover, one each side of the line. The referee is near, the puck ready to fall. They want that puck more than they have ever wanted each other. Their hockey sticks are ready. The referee moves onto position.
Shane whispers, loudly enough for Ilya to hear but no one else: “Ya vsegda budu tebya lubit.”
Ilya freezes and misses the drop entirely and Shane skates off with the puck, laughing. Ilya shakes himself back into life and gives chase, but Shane has already scored.
“What the fuck was that, Rozy?!” asked his French teammate skating by.
“Quickly, how do I call someone ‘asshole’ in French?”
—
Ilya is a quick study, particularly when driven by spite and revenge, so every chance he gets for the rest of the game he throws the words his teammate quickly taught him at Shane.
“Connard!”
“Salaud!”
“Enculé!”
Shane just laughs and it pisses Ilya off even more. The next time they meet, Shane beats him to it with, “Lèche-cul.”
Ilya skates off to find his teammate. “What is Lèche-cul?” He asks, trying to remember the pronunciation he just heard. His teammate laughs “Hollander called you an ass-licker?! I didn’t know he had it in him.”
Ilya feels heat rising through his body and creeping into his face. Mostly because Shane was right - he IS an ass-licker - of Shane!
Ilya’s game is totally shot and Montreal ends up winning 4 - 2. Ilya has no public explanation he can offer for his poor performance when asked by his teammates and the media what happened.
Ilya makes Shane pay for it later. But does also eventually show Shane what a great Lèche-cul he can be.