Chapter Text
There are many unethical things Ilya would do to delay his inevitable return to Moscow.
No, his injured ribs are not one of them, not this time anyway, but— many, many unethical things. Any unethical thing, actually, except asking someone if he could perhaps stay.
So when one day in the midst of the chaos of playoffs, management gathered up the entire team post-practice and forced freshly-hired Harris to do their dirty work, asking who wanted to volunteer over the summer— “or we will just pick one of you ourselves”— a lightbulb went off in Ilya’s head.
“If I do it, you all fuckers owe me,” he had broken the deafening silence, turning around to look at twenty grown men trying to evade each other’s eyes to deflect responsibility. They all wanted to go back to their picture-perfect families, to their loving wives and girlfriends, to their homes they missed dearly. The strain of playoffs on their bodies and minds reached a new peak every passing day, and while Ilya was, too, exhausted beyond belief, it was different for him. Ilya lived the opposite human experience; his goal had always been to stay as far away from Moscow as possible, for as long as there existed a sufficient excuse. Having an obligation to volunteer for the team— out of his hands, unavoidable… it could work, he thought to himself back then. It will work. He had started to plan ahead right away; he would wait for the very last moment he could to break the news to his father over the phone, and avoid the inevitable numerous calls that would flood his way as a result— his, and Andrei’s. The news would either be joined by a Stanley Cup with his name carved onto it to soften the blow, or mixed into the disappointment and disdain of a loss, an efficient way to combine two lashings into one.
“Rozy, you’re a fucking legend, man. My girlfriend will send you a fucking gift basket.” Boodram had reached to pull his head between his hands and kiss his hair with exaggerated gratefulness, the rest of the boys cheering loudly and leaning to push him forward and pat his back.
And because Ilya was never a man of favors, wasn’t raised to give out freely, and was viscerally afraid, like animal-instinct, of anyone getting too used to the idea of him being a person who cares— he had made sure to turn it into something that sat more comfortably in his chest. He leaned a knee against the bench by Boodram’s lap, patted his back three times, and called out, "I expect one gift basket from every single WAG, with thank you card inside,” he turned around the locker-room, eyebrows raised in a challenge, daring any of the familiar faces in the room to refuse him, pointing his finger at each of them. “And whoever is in town has to take me out for drinks whenever I fucking ask. Deal?”
It was easy to pretend he wasn’t all at once hanging onto the idea of staying here for three more weeks like a lifeline. Escaping the suffocation of his childhood home, the constant verbal onslaught from his father, the memories, the ghosts— it’s all he can think of whenever summer nears. Winning a Stanley Cup and going back home as late as possible go hand in hand for him. He will play hockey for as long as he possibly can, carry his team to victory after victory, round after round in the playoffs— because he loves to win, yes, but also because playing hockey means freedom. It means safe distance from a version of him that overtakes his body when he’s in Russia. Juvenile and helpless and weak. He wants to live in this Canadian version for a bit longer, to hold onto the way freedom feels in his greedy hands just a bit more. The moment the idea planted itself in his head— he was already blooming hope in gardenloads in his chest. Freedom, his mind screamed at him. Reprieve! Distraction! An excuse his father would buy! A way to hang onto his sanity, and for free! Three whole weeks! O Canada, all hail the land of good intention and performative public service!
Truly, none of them have any idea what he’s running from, and Ilya will keep it that way— will perform so immaculately the part he’s been given, has been playing for years, none of them will ever suspect.
Management had then taken him for a briefing, explaining in more detail, praising him for volunteering with a tinge of disbelief. It will do wonders for your reputation, Harris had said with a pleased smile. It went unsaid what he was referring to. Ilya is very cozy with three different gossip tabloids— he’s their favorite topic. From his endless string of hookups to his arrogant post-game declarations, to one bar fight with some bigoted fuckers post-win in Florida, they track his every move. It’s fine, he knows scrutiny and constant criticism like he knows the map of his own body. His entire life there has been a clear pattern of people either loving him, or loving to hate him. He sees it as part of the job to keep them all well-fed.
Lastly, because they’re genuinely good people, they tried to make sure he really was alright with delaying his return home. He knew they would not have picked him or any other player from outside North America, it’s unfair to keep them away from their families the only time they get to visit. Ilya understands the importance of it, but wishes he could remove the sentiment from himself without raising suspicion.
“Is what a good captain should do, no?” He had said, shrugging. It was crucial for him to make it clear it did not mean anything to him. It wasn’t a grand gesture of kindness, and no one should pose it as one, especially not him. It was clear as day— if not from context, then from familiarity with the Rozanov brand he meticulously built over the years— that he had his motives. He’s not one to extend good will beyond a hefty tip or verbal pleasantries with service workers. He was certain even they did not buy the excuse. Maybe they thought he lost some bet. Most likely, they thought he had a girl here. Whatever it was, they didn’t argue, and Ilya was officialized for the task.
His newly renamed ‘reputation therapy’ so happened to be volunteering at a hockey summer camp for children here in Ottawa. Ilya did not blink before agreeing to the schedule requirements Harris provided, even more earnest than before. He loves kids, he likes hockey well enough, and he, as mentioned, will do very unethical things to spend three weeks longer outside of dear homeland Russia. So doing an ethical thing? Perfect. Sign him up immediately.
After a devastating loss in the third round of playoffs— 3-4 against stupid fucking Toronto sneaking in as a wild card for the Metro side— the Cens were off the run for the Cup, and Ilya was left with injured ribs to take care of as a fun little memorabilia from Kent. He waited patiently for the incoming scolding from his father, and added salt to the wound; there is nothing I can do, Papa, management decided, it’s captain duty, a Canadian tradition, just three weeks, yes? While my ribs heal and I am not allowed to train anyway. I will work so hard once I am back. He mourned the loss for two whole solitary days in his house with his father’s punches in the forms of words replaying in his mind, and two whole nights in overcrowded nightclubs with music loud enough to shut off his brain, followed by somebody else in his bed. On the third day, he remembered his flight home was scheduled a whole three weeks away. It made him feel at the top of the world all at once.
Now, a bright sunny day in the city that’s grown to be his second home— Ilya gets to reap the fruits of his own brilliant mind. There’s spring in his steps as he parks his car out front. It’s not the Tire Centre, no, a smaller community rink a bit further downtown, but he walks in like a horse runs into an unfamiliar clearing; a field is a field, to those who were raised for it.
The people are waiting for him. Of course they are, even if he’s right on time.
“We are so honored to have you here with us this summer!” An Asian woman meets him at the entrance, beaming at him. Yuna, one of the directors, she introduces herself. She looks like someone who could drill him like a soldier and then treat him like a son. He isn’t familiar with that specific combination, unfortunately, but he appreciates the idea of it— respects it, even.
“Is my pleasure, really,” you do not even realize how much I mean it. “Very happy to be here.” Now where are the cute children?
Ilya looks around as he walks alongside her, passing the well-kept rink with hypercritical eyes. He half-expected the facilities to be just adequate enough, but by the look of it— freshly resurfaced, crisp ice; clear lines painted over it; solid, secure glass panels and scuff-less boards— Yuna keeps her standards high. They walk side by side, circling the rink to the opposite end. “We’re just going to go ahead with some logistics, and then we’ll let you go do your thing, meet the kids, meet the coaches,” she smiles at him. A few more steps, and they come to a stop by a door with a laminated sign taped on it, reading; Camp Directors.
Inside, sits a man. Ilya’s jaw drops for a frozen millisecond before he catches himself and forces it closed.
“This is my husband and co-director, David Hollander,” Yuna smiles proudly, gesturing to the other man, where he sits on a wheelchair by the desk, a spread of papers laid in front of him, perfectly organized in four distinct stacks.
“Yes,” Ilya takes three hurried steps forward and offers his palm eagerly for a handshake. David fucking Hollander. "I know you well. Fantastic one handed play in 2007 against Tampa Bay. For years I tried to copy, but not as good.”
David shakes his hand firmly with a smile. “Thank you, son. I could go on about your favorite plays of mine, but we’ll sit here all day.”
“Ah, no, really,” Ilya shakes his head, a disbelieving smile stretching on his lips. He had studied this man’s games like he was going to be graded on them, back when he was younger. There are not many people Ilya would put on a pedestal when it comes to hockey— but David Hollander is one of them. They have a similar style of play; physical and analytical in equal measure— calculated risk feigned as instinct. It had only been natural for Ilya to gravitate towards studying his gameplays. The tragedy of his injury had shaken Ilya to his core; he remembers the punch of dread, seeing it on television, a couple of months before the draft. He couldn’t believe his eyes, had been glued to online forums for days, furiously searching for updates, only to face crushing disbelief and disappointment. He had dreamed of playing against him one day, on NHL ice. “Is an honor. I did not know you were connected to this camp."
He really should have listened to management better past the mental summary of hockey, cute little children, ego trip, twenty one less days in Moscow.
“We could give you all the history if you’re interested, but the kids must be dying to meet you. We'll run you through the schedule the moment our s—”
A loud flinging of the door behind him startles him to turn around. His ribs scream in protest at the sudden twist, reminding him of where he had collided between the boards and another body just last week, taken off the ice for emergency care when he couldn’t get himself to straighten up. He had expected them to put painkillers on his tongue and send him back, but no matter how much he demanded them to, they wouldn’t. He was left, helpless, to watch the rest of the most important game of their season fall between their fingers, and for what? A stupid hit?
“Sorry! Sorry I'm late, Thomas and Caleb got into a fight again and I had to— oh.”
Ilya blinks down at a set of blotchy freckles, then up to a matching set of round, brown eyes. He’s faced with a pretty boy in a gray dry-fit Game Changers camp T-shirt and the breathing pattern of a man who had all but run here.
“Hello,” Ilya greets the awestruck look in the man’s eyes. That is a look he is very familiar with. He expected to see it on the children, but this is just as good for his ego.
“M-Mr. Rozanov— it’s— it’s so nice to meet you, I'm a huge fan.” Ilya watches the freckles swim in pink blush as the man trips over his words for him.
“Is always nice to meet fans. Does this fan have a name?” Ilya flashes him a charming smile. It's always nice to meet cute fans. His eyes keep straying down to those freckles.
“Shane, Shane Hollander.” He replies easily, a cocktail of shyness and pride; like a man who knows the weight of his own last name.
“Oh?” Ilya turns to the two other people present. “Your son?”
“Mhm, you bet. He’ll be coaching with you on the ice, so you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, I'm sure.” Yuna smiles fondly, a teasing undertone creeping in when her eyes stray to her son, that Ilya is quite curious about. She settles into one of the chairs. “Now, let’s get to business, shall we?”
Ilya sits next to Yuna in the vacant chair and listens. There are twenty four kids ages six to eight, to fill up four teams along with four coaches, Ilya and Shane included. One of the others is from a college hockey background, and the other is a long-retired goalie from shitty Buffalo. The children are under their wing from 8:45 at drop offs to 16:00 at pickups, Monday to Friday. She explains the earnings of the camp are almost entirely used as donations to both scholarships and sports injury rehabilitation centers— “yes, very important,” Ilya is quick to nod. She goes on about what is expected of him, about some strict rules regarding children to adults ratios, and Shane narrates their schedule in impeccable detail. David jumps in to mention by name a few kids who might need some extra help, and their stand regarding penalties on the ice. Ilya is disappointed to discover he won’t be coaching his own successor here, with this body contact ban in place. He reckons parents would not be too happy to get their kids back home all bruised up. He will not be surprised if David had made sure to mention it to him specifically because of his reputation as a dirty, physical player. Oh, well. He won’t be checking anyone soon with his ribs as they are, anyway. Not if he wants to be saved from the wrath of his team physiotherapist, Derek.
After that, they have him sign several forms and complete a brief online certification that apparently is sufficient enough to qualify him to be in charge of twenty four children. Fucking Canadians. Then he’s off with Shane to find the kids.
“You know hockey from your father?” Ilya asks during their walk to the locker-room, eyeing the way Shane Hollander’s shirt stretches over the line of his shoulders, his perfect posture, and the contrasting way his eyes skitter around, like Ilya makes him very nervous and he doesn’t know what to do with his body but keep it taut.
“Yeah— but, I mean, I played throughout college. I was— well, I was pretty good.” He doesn't meet his eyes, keeps them on the hallway they’re crossing. “I decided it wasn’t the right career choice for me, but I still love to play. And watch! The Cens are— yeah, you’re the best. Fuck Toronto, your last game was a shitshow. Kent should have been in the box half the game if you ask me, especially with that blindside hit in the third. Are your ribs okay?”
Ilya stares at him, a little shocked and a lot concerned. It has not been publicly shared what his injury site was, of course it wasn’t, and there was only one angle capturing the hit on camera. He doesn’t need that public invitation for his opponents, even if they won’t be playing anytime soon. Still, Shane guessed correctly. His lips curl into a curious smile. “They are okay. I have a feeling you are very good coach, Shane Hollander. You have good eyes.”
“I've been doing this for years, so I'd hope so.” Shane finally meets his eyes with a testing, nervous glance. It breaks away too quickly. “The kids will be so excited to meet you, Mr. Rozanov—”
“—No, No, we work together now— is very cute, but you can call me Ilya.” He tells him, keeps a close eye on his reaction— the anticipated airbrush of pink on the apples of his cheeks. Pleased, he finally tears his gaze away. “I love kids very much, I am more excited than they are.”
Ilya stays right outside the locker-room entrance with an amused smile while Shane steps inside. He hears the muffled sounds of children chattering, and then the way they quieten to accommodate Shane’s voice. “Okay everyone, I’ve got our fourth coach right outside. Our resident star player this summer. Are you ready to meet him?”
“He’s not from Detroit again, right? Sorry Coach, but you know what I mean.” A kid’s voice echoes out.
Ilya has to purse his lips to hold in his laughter. Whoever that kid is, he wants him on his team.
“No, not Detroit. Any other guesses?” Shane drags it out, a soft sigh at the word Detroit, almost— apologetic? Exasperated? Ilya doesn’t even have to wonder. Detroit’s team fucking sucks. Their last game against them back in the regular season ended in an embarrassing shutout— they hadn’t even managed to secure a playoff spot this season. There are murmurs, names thrown in unsure whispers, and then—
“Scott Hunter!” Ilya hears. He scoffs. Bastard has just won the Cup, the game highlights plastered through all his social media platforms without his consent, multiplying like fucking lice— he’s had enough of hearing his name.
“Ah, well— no, that’s… any other guess? Last chance.” The flustered tone doesn’t pass by Ilya’s ears. Fucking Hunter. The Canadians are his, he better get his old-man clutches out of them.
“What position does he play?” Somebody asks, the smallest hint of a lisp, a missing tooth, maybe. Shit, that’s fucking adorable.
“He plays center,” Shane provides a clue. There’s a chorus of oooh’s. “Think you can figure it out now, or should I tell him you give up?” He teases, and at least twenty different no’s are returned in various volume ranges.
“How many points did he score this season?” Another kid jumps in and a smirk creeps up on Ilya’s lips. Will Shane know the exact number? Is he a big enough fan, does he follow Ilya’s stats, goals and assists? Watches all of his games? Does he sit at the edge of his seat whenever Ilya has control of the puck? Rewatch his highlights enough times to have his best shots memorized? Or was that blush just the surprise of seeing a B-list celebrity outside of a TV screen?
There’s smugness in Shane’s voice when he replies, like he knows the reaction he’s about to get from his answer, like these are his fucking points; “sixty one goals, fifty assists.”
“No way, no way, no way, no way.”
Chaos breaks loose.
“Is it freaking Ilya Rozanov?” The one and only.
“Coach Shane, is this for real?” Very for real.
“He won two freaking Stanley Cups!” And the third is already dreaming of him.
“My mom saw him at the supermarket once,”
Ilya snorts.
“Yeah, he’s from Ottawa.”
“Isn’t he from Russia?”
“Well yeah, but he lives in Ottawa.”
“My friends are going to be so freaking jealous of me.”
“This is so much better than Detroit.”
An adult voice cuts in, a little gruff, must be the Buffalo goalie. “Let’s get this reveal going with some drumrolls, kids.”
Ilya’s lips gradually stretch into a grin; the sheer volume of hands meeting locker-room benches in cascading claps, for him, makes his heartbeat race. It fucking roars through the entrance door, energy building until it is palpable in the air, until Ilya can sense it through the wall that separates them. He thinks even David and Yuna should be able to hear it from down the hall. He fucking loves this. This is why he’s here. Well, part of the reason, but at this moment it feels like the only one.
When he thinks he’s done soaking in the energy— he throws the door open.
The roars of excitement are even louder than the drumming. Twenty four kids are on their feet in seconds, rushing over each other to get a better view of him. “Ah, Hollander made it too easy to guess, yes? Who else scored that much, hm?”
Ilya’s well aware of Hunter's sixty two goals. It pisses him off enough for a stubborn vendetta to form in his ribcage. But one goal is nothing, and Ilya has eight assists on him. He’ll fucking double him next season out of spite. Fuck him and his one single Cup. Ilya will get his third next season. Anyway, he bets Hunter doesn’t have twenty four children screaming in excitement at the sight of him.
“Mr. Rozanov! Are you really our new coach?” Some of the braver kids run up to him. He’s not well-equipped to tell their age, but they are clearly from the younger group, towering to barely the height of his hip, cheeks full and eyes sparkling up at him.
“I heard big rumor about twenty four future hockey champions. I begged David every single day on my knees, please, David, let me be their coach.” Ilya lies easily. He sees Shane hide a laugh behind his palm, beside him. “Call me Coach Ilya, yes?”
“No way! You heard about us?!”
“I get to call Ilya Rozanov Coach?”
“This is very famous camp, did you not know? I had to fight many hockey players to be here. Was like war, but of course I won.” He adds to the storyline, shrugging with a half-smile he finds impossible to remove from his face as long as the excited chatter still continues around him.
“Are we going to play hockey with Ilya freaking Rozanov?” A kid asks another across from him, eyes blown wide, hand fisting his friend’s shirt. Ilya has never been happier to be a celebrity, if only to get this reaction out of these kids. There are several different layers of warmth spreading throughout his chest, and only a few of them are distinct enough for him to point his finger at and name; pride, fondness, nostalgia.
“Well, it depends. Are you going to keep asking questions or are you going to get into gear?” Ilya raises a brow, and in seconds, twenty four kids are scurrying to their designated lockers.
***
Ilya doesn't really need a debriefing when it comes to practice drills, he had been an attendee of youth hockey programs when he was young and boisterous and just starting out, eager to prove himself— the ones in Russia aren't meant to be quite as fun as this one, no, there’s hardly any fun where discipline is expected over that border, but the drills are not dissimilar. Ilya knows it’s not meant in malice, but his lips twitch in discontent either way at the hesitant explanations from his fellow coaches. He knows it’s just to be sure, he knows not all players share this with him— but Ilya practices his basics down to the angle of his skates, down to the millisecond it takes him to get his stick to hit the puck in motion. He might look like an intuitive player, but there is no intuition where there isn't a mastery of the backbones of the game. There are no comments that tick him off worse than the ones calling him careless or hotheaded or temperamental on the ice. Call him an animal, call him a nightmare, call him a hurricane of destruction for all he cares— but never call him messy. Ilya learned to play hockey in Russia, was born and shaped and raised in Russia. There is no universe in which his basics are not honed to the sharpest degree, no universe in which the knifelike commands of his childhood coaches do not ring in his ears, harsh and demanding, body following almost viscerally, muscle memory, taut and braced. His body remembers, and he doesn’t allow it to forget for a second where hockey was first birthed in him.
In order for it to be his escape route from Moscow, hockey must first be rooted in it. It must keep its roots deep into the city he was born in, spanning into his first rink, to his family home and to the CSKA arena where he still practices over the summer. Then, hockey can make its way over to Canada, to the Cens’ Tire Centre, to the community rink his skates are cutting through right now. This way, hockey can remain the two-way bridge between the two realities Ilya juggles, the two halves of himself he can’t quite force to merge into one.
But it’s fine. He’s nitpicking for flaws where there aren’t any. His father always tells him he focuses on the wrong things and neglects what really matters. He’s not crossing that bridge back home anytime soon, so there’s no need to fret on the part of him that doesn’t know to separate Ottawa from Moscow. The distance from home is getting him sentimental, and it’s messing with his head, is all. Ilya understands these guys, really; he can name many NHL players who could use some work on their edges. He can’t imagine which ones have coached here before him— Detroit must not have set a very high standard.
Still, through evident discomfort, his fellow coaches call for him to fix up the rink with them, while Shane separates the kids into their teams for the summer. Mason, the goalie, must be almost fifty, and Logan looks like he’s maybe a couple of years younger than Ilya. Yet, they carry themselves with some level of uncertainty that makes them both seem much younger. He thinks it could maybe be his presence, the hesitance to tell Ilya Rozanov, infamously the biggest asshole of the NHL, what to do. Of course his reputation walks before him. Every hockey fan had seen him play; compilation after compilation of bone-rattling checks and bloody fights and words like knife edges aimed where it hurts. He can’t blame anyone but himself for this one.
They explain the rink setup in vague words and polite smiles, and he nods, irritated by the tag being placed on him, but accepting it as easily as he does anywhere else. It’s not that he thought he’d be free of it, here. He knows it comes with his nameplate but— no one had shown signs of bias before now, none of the Hollanders or the kids. Maybe a part of him wished to be rid of all the burdens at once during his time here, alongside the burden of Moscow. Greedy. He always has been.
Four respective nets, endless pucks lined in perfect distance on the ice, the entire load of orange pylons found in the storage room, scattered in perfect distance for children’s much smaller strides. Ilya runs himself through the drills silently once they’re all set, a perfect round of all stations, just because the schedule allows and he has free will urging him to move his body after too many days away from the rink following his injury.
When the kids finally arrive, six of them crowd Ilya with overjoyed smiles, Coach Ilya, we’re on your team! but get sent away to their respective station with knowing smiles from the other coaches. Ilya’s too in awe to send them away himself.
He’s tasked with shooting drills for their first practice. He wasn't sure what level the kids were, if he’d have to teach them skating from scratch or not— but it seems they know their way around the equipment, around the familiar movements, around the ice.
Ilya has always been good with names, but he’s glad to have the stickers on their practice jerseys, at least for this first time.
“More power next shot, Devin,” Ilya claps the boy on the back, “use your legs to drive through it, yes? The more power, the harder it is for Willow to block.”
“Yes Coach Ilya!” The boy skates away with a determined grin.
The kids are buzzing with energy, he’s unsure whether it’s his presence, or it being the first day of camp. Either way, they accept his corrections easily, soaking the guidance like sponges with stars in their eyes and trying their best to follow the directions the next chance they get. Ilya is being watched like he hung the stars himself, like he invented the sport out of his own mind, like his presence alone is enough to turn them all into the future of the NHL. He lets himself bask in the innocent attention, lets himself sink into the understanding that the spotlight that’s centered on him is warm and adoring and naive, and not one he needs to perform for. Children are sweet like that, simple and so incredibly easy to impress. Ilya loves children.
“Give me shooting progressions. Wrist, snap, slap shots. Show off for me, Team Shane. Is good to study the opponent, no?” He instructs with an amused smile. One by one, the kids line up and shoot towards the net in threes. Ilya dutifully lines their pucks for them.
“We love Willow very much, boys,” Ilya calls, skating around them with a teasing smile at the boy in the crease. “But we want to make him hate you by the end of this round, yes? Make him work very hard in the net. I want to see him sweat through his gear.”
Ilya’s a firm believer that if the opposing team’s goaltender doesn't hate his guts, he’s not going hard enough. It’s gotten him two Stanley Cups already, so it must be good advice.
“Coach Shane told me last summer that I have a strong slap shot!” Owen brags with a grin as he takes position, and sends the puck flying into the left of the net. “Woo! Still got it!”
Ilya grins at the boy clearly having the time of his life, and allows himself a moment to look up to the right, at Shane Hollander watching critically, calculative eyes running around as the kids around him circle two pylons one by one, cleaning up their edges, repeating again and again until he’s satisfied with their performance. Strict, but generous with affection and praise when his standard is met. He finds himself liking the look in his eyes a little too much when his lips spread around a proud smile and read that’s what I’m talking about, with celebratory claps— so he rips his eyes away and back to Owen heading to the back of the line. He smiles at him, "if Shane Hollander says, it must be the truth.”
A buzzer sounds, and the teams are switched. Ilya rounds the kids up with fistbumps over small gloved hands, an eager and grinning good job, Team Shane, but we will still beat you, that is met with earnest laughs and disagreements as they skate away. He’s reordering the pucks on the ice with his stick when he hears more swooshing of skates cutting through the ice, advancing towards him, and lifts his head to look. Ilya's smile widens, teeth out as he welcomes his own team to his corner of the rink. “Here are my little champions! Ready to show me what team Rozanov is made of?”
He makes good use of their couple of minutes, studying each of them with careful eyes. Kai is their goalie, and— he’s a fucking star. Ilya is grinning each time the puck is wrung out of the perimeter before it can enter the net, and the boy toots for himself, shaking his jet-black hair out of his eyes below the helmet. Ilya is grinning eye to eye. “Kai! What is this? You were born in chesty and pads, or what?”
“Tell Mr. Hayes about me Coach Ilya!” He gets back with an adorable hyperactive dance that only stops when Daniel laughs an evil chuckle and shoots three quick pucks at him, too fast for Kai to drop to save. Ilya laughs and pulls Daniel in for a side-hug.
“No, no, no. Your parents will have to give you up, he and his wife will steal you away." Ilya jokes, and watches the kid laugh in delight.
Riley skates over to position, Ilya notes he’s less confident on his skates than the other boys, but his control over his stick is good enough to get the puck just out of Kai’s reach.
“Good! Very good shot, Riley. I need you more stable on your skates, maloylittle guy. When you get to Shane’s station, tell him Coach Ilya wants him to give you special treatment.” He pats his back.
“Muh-loy? Was that Russian? What does it mean?” He laughs as he carefully skates back into line, eyes looking up expectantly at Ilya.
“Ah, little man?” He raises a brow at him, expecting the inevitable reaction.
“I’m not little, Coach Ilya! I’m taller than Sammy!” He insists.
“Everyone is taller than Sammy!” Niko teases from the front of the line. “And you’re shorter than I am!”
“Let me be clear, you are all very, very small. All of you, tiny. But I was even smaller your age, so I am sure you will grow as tall as me very soon.” He tells them, another white lie, with an amused glint in his eyes. Ilya Rozanov was shorter than me? He hears Sammy gasp and tries hard to contain his laughter. His eyes raise to watch Niko skate his way towards the net, but they’re distracted by curious brown eyes finding his own from across the ice. The moment his gaze meets Shane’s, the other man tears his eyes away like they never moved away from the bright orange pylons in front of him. Only his cheeks give him away— flaming pink, freckles dotted even starker around the supple cheeks.
No need to be shy, Shane Hollander. Ilya thinks with a devilish smirk. I don’t bite.
Not on purpose, anyway.
Once the dedicated schedule time for station drills ends, they move to a mix of activities, with the coaches skating around for corrections and directions.
Ilya spends some stubborn minutes with his team, explains some of his previous corrections, demonstrates when he’s begged to with big pleading eyes of his own six-person-army of fanboys, and passes them pucks when they look like they need a hand.
When he decides to meet some of the other kids, he skates around the rink. Ilya’s eyes are everywhere on the ice all at once, making sure the kids are safe, learning, and having fun. He spots Ron from Shane’s team passing a puck back and forth with Owen, his helmet isn’t sitting right on his head, dangling below his chin as he moves. He skates over to brace it into place for him, but he must startle the focused boy because when his hand reaches under his chin to pull the brace tighter into position, Ron jumps in place, losing stability on his skates, and jerks his stick right into Ilya’s ribs, perfectly aligned with his injury site.
Shit, Fuck. Fucking fuck. He folds over with a repressed groan of pain, skates cutting into the ice, but holds Ron’s bicep so he doesn’t fall and gets his balance back.
“Coach Ilya! I’m so sorry!” He shrieks when he realizes what just happened.
“Is okay, my fault.” Ilya grits out of his teeth with a half-smile half-grimace, feels his heart throbbing through his side, half of his midsection on fire, relit again a week after the initial ignition. He’s still on painkillers, at least.
It takes maybe a millisecond for Shane to appear out of thin air next to them. He grabs Ilya's arm to stabilize him. “Hey, deep breath. You okay?”
“Is fine. Give me three seconds.” Ilya breathes out, fists clenched, counting, three, two, one. And then he’s hoisting himself back up with a controlled exhale. “Like new. Let’s go.”
Then he skates off, away from Shane’s worried gaze, back to his kids, before anyone else even notices the slip.
Lunchtime is a culture-shock not dissimilar to Ilya's first time in North America. It's all preferences and allergies and some fidgets provided that Ilya is very confused as to why would be needed during lunch when hands should be busy with food. Incredibly accommodating American things Ilya doesn't quite get, feels a little like a skit on TV his father would have a lot of shit to say about, but not in a bad way. He simply passes Nate his fake-sandwich, asks Shane under his breath why Kai is asking for earplugs in order to agree to sit down at their table, and nods dumbly when he’s told it’s a sensory thing, the chewing sounds like it’s a well-known issue. He passes the boy a new packet of neon orange earplugs from the handful he steals from Shane, ruffles his hair and rubs at his shoulder as he sits down with his team and opens his sandwich. He tries to chew extra quietly and speak extra loud.
After lunch, they finally play. The kids are smiling the entire time, into it even when they fall on their knees and on their asses, even when they need help getting up and to sit out for a few moments, even when they lose, even when the four coaches yell out encouragements and corrections alike, even when they freeze and make mistakes and shoot the puck onto the plexiglass.
It’s wholesome, it’s refreshing, it reminds Ilya of everything his beginning with hockey was not. Innocent, and joyful, and carefree, and fun. There's no looming figure watching their every move, making a mental list of criticisms, all they’re doing wrong. There isn't a coach alongside that figure, who feeds him just where they’re lacking and weak and not working hard enough. No, it’s nothing like that at all.
The day ends a little too fast. Once the game is over, the kids grab their belongings from the locker room, Logan double-checks no one left anything behind, and they take them up front to the pick-up area.
Shane is there with a small notepad and a pen, making sure everyone who’s meant to be on the bus is present, and that the drop-off locations are correct. He’s got a small crease between his brows as he makes sure everything runs smoothly, perfectly. Only when he’s absolutely sure, Ilya watches him get off the bus and pass Mason the notepad with a nod.
Once everyone is settled on the bus and Mason climbs up with them to chaperone, they head off. Logan goes inside to start with cleanups, and he and Shane stay outside with the three boys left on their hands, a mix of their teams, chatting excitedly about the game. While they wait, Ilya allows himself to be distracted and let his eyes roam to his left, where Shane is chewing his bottom lip, thumbing at the hem of his pants, and very visibly forcing himself to not meet Ilya’s gaze.
In no time Ilya hears a car pull up, so he tears his eyes away from Shane. A woman shuffles out of it, not bothering to kill the engine. She heads towards them, an excited smile on her face.
“Mom!” Riley jumps, allowing himself to advance towards her from Ilya’s side. “Look who’s coaching me this time!”
“Oh I knew it!” His mother calls, looking maybe around her forties, hair as mousy blond as Riley’s and grin as big as his, too. She’s looking right at Ilya with a glint in her eyes. “I knew David and Yuna would snatch you sooner or later. Hi, sweetie, I’m Pauline, I’m Riley’s mom. Our whole family is your number one fan.”
She reaches her hand for a shake, and Ilya complies with an easy smile. “Hello,” he greets, pleased at the turn of events. Meeting so many fans in one day— this camp will grow his ego so large he’ll have to get it surgically removed. Beautiful women being his fans is wonderful on its own, but them raising cute children who grow to also be his fans— a gift that keeps on giving. Generational ego boost. “Is nice to meet you, Pauline. Your son is one summer away from stealing my job.” He ruffles the boy’s hair from where he’s holding onto his mother’s arm. “I am sorry to say, but I think number one fan is this guy here,” he points his thumb over at Shane with a pseudo-consoling smile. “I am sure you all come right after, though.”
“Huh? Me? No way,” Shane jerks, his face growing red in seconds. His eyes fly back and forth between everyone present, as if to gauge their reactions. “I’m a casual fan.”
Casual. Causal doesn’t quote his goal to assist ratio by heart. Casual doesn’t have personal opinions about the way his games go. Casual doesn’t call him Mr. Rozanov with blush on his pretty freckled cheeks. Casual doesn’t steal glances at him throughout the entire day when he thinks he isn’t looking.
Ilya turns his gaze from Pauline to him with a raised brow, eyes raking up and down his frame with a challenge. “What year was I given the C?”
Shane looks away, expression almost guilty, as if caught red-handed doing something naughty, and not simply remembering a fact he can search up online in less than a second. It’s like he doesn’t even think to lie. “Twenty eleven…”
A pleased grin spreads slowly on Ilya’s lips. The boys all giggle between themselves. Of course he fucking knows. Of course those eyes following him around all day hadn't been a coincidence. Ilya can recognize interest like the sound of his own name— he’s got a lifetime of practice in curious eyes and stolen glances. What kind of interest… that is yet to be discovered. For now, Ilya will just have to settle on enjoying discovering the extent of said interest.
“Who was my first opponent on NHL ice? What was the score?” He tilts his head with an even bigger smirk. Waiting, anticipating. He thinks this man is far too easy to figure out.
“Boston… it was an away game… you won 2-1…” Shane mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest in defiant defeat, a little petulant, even. Ilya’s grin only widens at the reaction.
“Oh Shane, sweetie,” Pauline coos at him. “We’ll happily take up the second spot, then.”
“Yeah, that’s fine with me.” Riley shrugs. “Coach Shane knows even more than dad does, and dad knows everything about the Centaurs."
Ilya leans into Shane’s halo of shamefulness, flustered and red and halfway to fuming, and smirks, how pleased he is written all over his features. With a curious, testing kind of teasing lilt to his tone, and a toothy grin, he tells him; “happy to have you running the club, Hollander.”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” he shoots back, freckled cheeks burning rosy. “I’m not running any clubs.”
Another car pulls up not long after the previous one drives away, and another woman steps out with a smile.
“Oh my god. What is Ilya Rozanov doing outside of my TV screen?” Her hand rushes to cover her mouth as she advances towards them, but it’s more delighted than shocked. “I’m Nora, these two rascals’ mother.”
“Mom is here today?” Ron nudges Sammy with a surprised smile.
“Ah, your boys were too good at hockey, left us no choice but to bring backup.” Ilya’s lips quirk up, two hands reaching to shake her offered one earnestly.
“I wouldn’t call you backup! A player like you in my sons’ camp, oh wow!” She looks down at Sammy and Ron. “You two must be on cloud nine, huh?”
“Ilya is my coach, mom!” Sammy gloats, rushing towards her side.
“Mom, I accidentally hit Ilya Rozanov with my stick,” Ron whisper-yells when he reaches her, like confessing a sin he has committed. Ilya wishes he could erase the boy’s memory of that moment, so he doesn’t have to feel guilty about it anymore. Ilya’s fine, he always is, and boys this young should not be familiar with the concept of guilt— especially not for things out of their control.
Her eyes immediately rise in concern to Ilya, but he simply smiles and shakes his head. “Is fine, I surprised him. Was my fault, really.” He ruffles Ron's hair with a chuckle. “I am big strong hockey player, yes? I get hit all the time, barely felt it.”
Ron nods with a pout, and his mom takes over petting his hair. “Thank you for taking care of my boys, then, as always,” she sends over to Ilya, but quickly settles warmly over Shane.
“Anytime, Nora.” Shane smiles back, and waves when they head back to the car.
“Do mothers always come to pick the kids up?” Ilya turns to ask Shane with a raise of his brow once they’re out of earshot. He has his suspicions.
“Eh, no, not really. Riley’s big brother was the one who picked him up throughout last summer, and Nora’s husband likes the excuse to talk hockey.” Shane admits, avoiding eye contact with Ilya, a little red-cheeked as if he had just told him no, they’re here because you’re hot as fuck, Ilya, what did you think? instead of bland facts.
“I see,” he smirks, still visibly pleased with himself. “Soon there will be no need for drop-off bus, I think. All the mothers will come to line up to talk to me. I will get no coaching done, is no good, Shane.”
“Yeah right,” Shane mutters, still a bit affected from being teased, before. He rolls his eyes and turns away to head back inside. “You won’t get away that easily, Rozanov.”
***
When they’re finally done with tidying up, Ilya excuses himself for a well-earned cigarette break. He loves children, but he also loves quiet, and today has been a long day. He finds a corner outside the back of the rink and settles against the wall. The scent of Ottawa summers in the air could grow on him. Much better than Moscow. Anything is. He lights up a cigarette, and he thinks about his day. About the children. About Willow and Xavier and Kai and Thomas and Caleb and Cole and Sammy and Matteo and everyone else. He thinks about Riley growing scared of the ice after a fall, and his mind wanders to that first time his father had visited him at the rink back home, around Riley's age, watching carefully, an upturn to his lip. The naive understanding that a hobby of his could earn him some of his love if he does well. What even is love for his father? Does he have some of that in his body? Did he have some of it for his Mama before he was born, at the very least?
When Ilya thinks of childhood, he thinks of delusion. Of play and fantasy. And then, at some point, a gradual sinking of understanding. Maybe starting the first time his father had grabbed his arm tight enough to leave a bruise, and didn't let go when he cried for him to. Maybe the first time he failed him and watched his entire world turn against him. Learning the ropes. Learning that none of that had been real, before. That everything is for show and it is all a carefully choreographed performance. That nothing is in his control but himself. That no one will offer him anything he hasn't rightfully earned.
“Hey,” Shane’s figure advances towards him, backdoor clinking shut behind his frame. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya nods, exhaling smoke. He doesn't elaborate. Being around children makes him happy. Playing, teasing, guiding— even learning from the Hollanders about redirecting, about kids who are different, who need extra help. It's like proof. Proof he’s nothing like the man he’d taken his middle name from. Won’t ever be like him. Ever.
“Your ribs— could I have a look?” Shane frowns at the camp T-shirt covering Ilya’s midsection like it personally offended him.
Ilya stares at him, bewildered. “A look?”
“The hit from Ronny’s stick— I'm worried about that.” Shane clarifies absolutely nothing.
“And you… want to see? Why? You have weird pain fetish, Hollander?” Ilya raises a brow.
“Shit, no, no way! I guess I never mentioned it— I swear I'm not a creep—“ Shane’s ears turn red. “I'm a sports physical therapist when I'm not coaching this camp. I guess I want to make sure you’re alright.”
Oh. This is interesting. Ilya taps stray ashes off his cigarette. Son of Montreal Voyageurs legend turned handicapped by injury, chooses to not pursue professional hockey like his father, but rather become a sports physical therapist? Surely, every aspect of that decision must have been influenced by his father’s injury. Ilya wonders if Shane had ever even seen another path as an option. Maybe fathers were always meant to hold their sons back.
Ilya looks at him for a long moment, taking a drag from his cigarette, before gesturing for Shane to come closer. “You will nag me like team PT? I have babysitter now?”
“I’m not a babysitter, I won't nag you.” Shane mumbles with a bothered frown, closing the distance between them. "I need to keep the staff safe just as much as the children.”
“Ah, yes. Cannot have people saying best hockey player in league was hurt here. What parent will send their children to this camp then? Not Nora, and not Pauline, is for sure.” Ilya lifts his shirt up on the left side, showing off last game’s bruise taped up securely.
Shane crouches to take a better look. He looks up at Ilya, unaware of how pretty he looks from above, eyelashes fluttering. Ilya looks away. It's a bad idea. He hasn’t indulged in a while. “Can I take off the tape? I'll redo it after I finish, of course.”
Ilya nods through another drag of his cigarette, a slow, stretched-out exhale of smoke as Shane’s hands reach for the tape, carefully peeling it off to see the colorful bruise. He presses lightly around the expanse of it— from upper rib to where it flares out to the dip of his waist, trailing towards his mid-back, watching Ilya’s reactions carefully. He finds a spot that makes Ilya hiss in complaint, and then with a thoughtful frown, he rebraces the tape around the injury site.
“Can I be annoying and ask what your team PT instructed you?” Shane stands up, mirroring Ilya’s stance against the wall, running a hand on his shirt to straighten it out.
Ilya shrugs, still caught by the coolness of his palms on his skin. It was methodical. Quick. Nothing for Ilya’s brain to twist into any form of attraction. Maybe he should check when Svetlana is visiting next. Maybe head to a club downtown sometime this week. It is the off season, after all, and his teammates owe him their time. “Ice two times a day, no working out except for special exercises. Taping. Rest. Normal things.”
“Your obliques and lower lats are really tight,” Shane blurts out, as if he’s been holding the words in and finally allowed them passage. "I don't know if they were when you got injured, but they are now.”
“Okay,” Ilya raises a brow, bringing the cigarette to his lips. “And? I will die tomorrow, doctor?”
Shane sputters. “I'm not— of course not. When is your next appointment?”
“Hollander,” Ilya meets his eyes with a levelled stare. "I am not child who fell in your camp. You are not my parent.”
“Of course you’re not a child, of course I'm not your parent,” Shane looks at him, flabbergasted. “I’d like to make sure you’re okay, is all. That being here won’t delay your recovery, or affect your play, or— I'm a Cens fan too, you know? I want to see you at your best back on the ice.”
Ilya laughs out his smoke. He learned the term today— he redirects. “Whose jersey do you wear to games?”
“Oh fuck off,” Shane huffs, shoulders tensing, rolling his eyes, but staying put. Ilya waits. There's a long moment of contemplation on Shane’s face. Ilya doesn’t say a word, stays perfectly quiet as he awaits a proper reply. Once the silence starts to stretch too long, Shane folds. "I wear yours. Happy? You’re our star center, you scored sixty one goals with fifty more assists this season, you led the league in points. Of course I wear yours. I should have known you’d be cocky about it.”
Ilya’s eyes catch Shane’s. The satisfaction must be written all over his features. He looks over Shane’s gray dry-fit and imagines it was red with his last name on the back. Pretty. Ilya looks away for another drag.
Almost as if the correct answer has earned Shane a direct reply, Ilya circles back to their conversation. “My appointment is next week. Thursday.”
“That’s in too long. There’s no way you aren’t in pain, it’s all tender and inflamed there.” Shane frowns. He turns to face Ilya with oddly-placed determination. “Do you want me to help? It won't take long, and I'll stop nagging you after, I swear.” You said you will not nag me at all.
“Help how, Hollander?” Ilya rolls the words slowly in his mouth, vowels extended. His eyes hold Shane’s, an equal amount wary and curious. Stronger painkillers would not be too bad, if he’s honest. He isn’t sure if Shane is the type to offer those so freely, though.
“Just some massages around the injury site? It will help with some of the pain too. I trust you’ve had myofascial or trigger points release done before.” He replies easily, like it’s the obvious option for how he could help, and not an unspoken long-term commitment.
"I am not your patient, Hollander. Is fine, does not hurt. It healed before and will heal again." Ilya focuses on breathing out the smoke, forcing his eyes away from the other man’s reaction. There’s an uncomfortable tension growing in his stomach, and an urge to step on his cigarette bud and take his leave, right then.
“I know you’re not a patient, I just— I'd like to make sure you’re okay or I'd worry every time I look at you. Consider this doing me a favor, alright? It’ll be just a couple of minutes and then I'll send you home.” Shane insists, a confusing mixture of stubborn demands and outright pleas.
Ilya’s frown deepens. Letting him treat his inflamed injury, as a favor? A doctor has already looked and told him he will be brand new in a couple of weeks. What does he have to gain from this? "I don't understand. Is just hit from six year old child.”
“My dad had a bad knee from a fall on a family hike, before. Things add up. Let me do this, please, for my peace of mind.” Shane pushes. Almost begs. This is insane, what is wrong with this man?
Ilya’s mouth dries. He forgets he’s even holding a cigarette. The implication is daunting, despite Ilya never being one to fret over his health. More important, is the backhanded admission from Shane that his father’s injury still haunts him. Like fathers know best how to do.
He finds himself laying down on a treatment table in the training room. Of course he does. Fucking Hollander. How can you say no to something like that? He lays on his right side, frowning, shirtless, with Shane’s hands reaching for summer-warmed skin.
He feels like he’s missing something. A motive, maybe. An exchange. A reason for this man who was a stranger eight hours ago, to care about Ilya’s body more than he cares about it himself. To beg to do this for him. Ilya is familiar with both men and women propositioning him; he knows what a suggestion with ulterior motives sounds like. He knows very personally the look in their eyes when they beg to service him, the words that hold an unsaid request to receive it right back one way or another. Ilya loves those propositions. They’re his favorite kind. But this? What is this?
Shane’s fingers are rough, but they tread gently around the bruise. Until they don't. “—Motherfucker—“
"I know, I know. Try to breathe through it, Ilya.”
The same words have been spoken to him a million times before. They're a PT’s favorite when their hands are up where it hurts. Yes, Ilya has definitely had this treatment done before. He doesn't remember it feeling like a kid’s first time at the dentist’s. He can't decide if he wants to lighten the mood or curl inwards into the discomfort even more than he already has.
It should all be familiar, routine, but it isn't. It's foreign from every direction. This isn't a man paid to do this, this isn't how things are supposed to go. There are careful, firm hands on his skin where he’s hurt and attentive eyes on his every reaction, and they are there because they want to be. Because they begged to be, demanding nothing in return, and Ilya had given in. He’s regretting it now. The wrongness of it all clings to his skin.
Shane’s knuckles press into his side, digging sharply into tightened skin for suspended moments, almost like he’s trying to reshape him around the pressure. When he deems it time to release, he cradles the area in his palm to soothe the ache, and Ilya lets out a sigh of relief that proves impossible to contain. He does feel… better there now. From one stretch of muscle to another, Shane repeats the motion, and with it the relief grows, the muscles unfasten. He had not realized they were tense in the first place. He lets himself close his eyes in a long, stretched out blink before his gaze moves to look at Shane. Shane Hollander. The frown of concentration, the splatter of freckles on his cheeks, the flexing of his biceps as he works Ilya’s muscles. Shane Hollander, who’s been traumatized by his father’s detrimental injury enough to care about Ilya’s meaningless one, maybe. Who’s a devoted fan trying to give back to the star player of his favorite team, maybe. Who’s a boyish man who still believes he can care for a person like Ilya and keep himself safe, maybe. Ilya’s not like his father. He isn't. But he is— he was his student for many years. Was taught how to be through praise and punishment, and there's only so much he can reteach himself on his own. His father had forced into his last name, into his genes, one core lesson; that giving makes you weak, and taking makes you strong.
Ilya has been drilled into that one lesson his entire life. Again and again and again and again. It stayed in his consciousness but he could never accept it. Could never accept a truth that insinuated his Mama was weak. Would never. Never, ever, ever.
When Ilya was eight and chasing his father’s validation in the form of children’s hockey, when he was shaping himself in the man’s shadow like the soldier he was being raised to become… he was also simultaneously fed spoonfuls of warmth from his beautiful mother. Held in her embrace and read to; nimble hands in the curls of his hair, brushing idly; lullabies murmured into his sleeping form; bruises and aches tended to carefully; taking and taking and taking from her. Love and warmth and care and safety pouring into him and softening his edges. She was not weak for it. She was not, ever, weak. She was brave, and she loved him. Selflessly, unconditionally. Until she couldn't anymore.
No one has cared for his wounds since she died. Even in the aftermath of her taking her life, he was left on his own, his last image of her burned into the back of his eyelids.
No one cared for him unless he earned it; paid them or won and scored for them or blew their minds under his body; he was raised in Moscow, Russia. Care and abuse are hard to differentiate within the borders of his homeland, maybe even impossible to. It's why he doesn't trust himself to care too much for anyone who doesn't know what it’s like. You cannot give a blind man a paintbrush and expect him to paint your portrait. It’s the same with him.
Shane Hollander definitely doesn't know what it’s like.
His hands on Ilya’s bruised abdomen are too gentle to belong to someone whose last memories of true safety originate from a decade ago; his eyes too unguarded and easy to read to have tasted his emotions used against him and shamed into repression.
Maybe one day Ilya could be like that too. It must feel like the most terrifying type of freedom.
Giving, caring, is not a weakness, no matter what his father preached. Caring is bravery. And Ilya, Ilya was raised to be afraid.
The hands on his abdomen lift off slowly, and only when he opens his eyes does Ilya realize he’s had them closed the entire time.
“We are done?” His voice is roughened, accent stronger with the turbulence of emotions. He keeps his eyes levelled and empty, internal world tucked back behind a wall in milliseconds, his jaw locked to hold all the words in.
Shane looks at him with those tell-tale eyes that scream confusion and worry. It’s like the thought of hiding how he feels had never even crossed his mind. “Are you okay, Ilya? Did I overstep in any way?”
“Yes,” he shoots out, frustrated, eager to escape the suffocation this interaction wrapped him in. He watches Shane’s expression fill with regret for a fragment of a moment before he jumps to clarify; "I mean, yes I am okay. No you did not— is fine. You are fine, Shane.”
The other man purses his lips. “Are you sure? You looked like you were in pain even when I wasn't applying any pressure, and…”
"I said I am fine,” Ilya snaps, sitting up on the treatment table. "I am not made of glass, Hollander. I did your favor, so now you do one for me and let this go. Forget I am injured. Is none of your business.”
“Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't— I just wanted—” Shane rushes to explain. His expression is fucking terrible. Some cocktail of guilt and defensiveness that burns Ilya’s retinas to watch as he causes. Do not meet your heroes, they say. “I’ll drop it, okay? I didn't mean to upset you.”
Ilya wants to bare his teeth and bite back. He wants to make him regret even offering in the first place, prompting this reaction within him unaware. Wants to teach him a lesson Ilya has long learned; that giving to the wrong people is brave exactly because it is an invitation for pain. For hurt. Ruin his boyish charm and naivety and take them from him. Take, take, take, show him what real greed looks like. He wants to chew the memory of attentive hands alleviating his pain, and spit it right out so he’s rid of it at once. So he doesn't have the chance to remember and inevitably crave it again.
But that is not who he is. Those are his father’s genes in his body, the nervous system he shaped. Ilya is not his father, Ilya is not in Moscow right now. He does not need to put up defenses and search for potential threats. Ilya is in Ottawa, volunteering with children, stealing three weeks of feeling human like a cookie from the jar when no one’s looking. He’s sitting in front of a man who tried to help him but his first instinct was to make him regret it and run. His second instinct, emerging now, is to soothe; to lap at the wound he caused like a dog who bit his owner.
They say your first thought is your trauma’s conditioning and the second is the one that defines who you are. Ilya would never fault a dog for following his protective instinct to bite.
"I’m sorry,” his expression turns slack, jaw releasing. English is hard. When it comes to this, even Russian is hard. Sveta once told him emotions are easier in a second language. He’s not too sure of it, but maybe he’s the problem. “Is not your fault. I am… a mess. You are kind, Hollander, and I am not. I am also not… used to kindness, so I freak out like little kid and get angry. Is terrible. No more of that. I am very thankful, Shane. You did not need to do this.” And now there’s a guilty weight in my stomach and a voice in my head that sounds like my father’s telling me good job.
Shane’s eyes search his face. “You say you’re not kind, but I've seen you with the kids. Children are the best judges of character, and they adored you right away.”
“Kids like famous people,” Ilya diverts his gaze. Doesn't allow himself to consider it.
“Ilya, my dad is fucking David Hollander,” Shane laughs like Ilya had just told a ridiculous joke. “We’ve had famous players coach here every summer. Some of them were only here for the media coverage and it showed. The children can tell, I'm not making it up.”
“No,” Ilya’s brows raise in interest, lips stretching into a pleased smile. The information spreads warmth in his heavy chest. A badge of pride sewn onto his human uniform. “Like who?”
Shane shrugs, "last year Detroit’s Vinny Andersen started yelling at Matteo for freezing with the puck.”
Ah, Detroit.
“The kid is fucking trying!” He throws his hands out. “He did good today and he is going to do even better tomorrow.” Ilya lights up to defend, remembering the curly haired boy’s deer-in-headlights stance that first time the puck came into his vicinity. He’s one of the younger ones on his team. "I am going to fucking destroy Detroit next season.”
Shane’s smile grows into a laugh, all shiny-eyed. Ilya’s shoulders drop at the sight. Licking the wound doesn't feel too bad when this is the reward for it. "That definitely sounds like a game I’d tune in to.”
Ilya holds Shane’s gaze for a moment, something untangling between them, maybe the previous tension, maybe something even worse. He can’t put a name on it. Soon enough, Ilya is standing up from the treatment table and reaching for his shirt. "I will leave now, let you go home. Thank you for today. My boys will win fake plastic Cup tomorrow, so prepare your losing speech to calm down rest of crying children, yes?”
“You wish, Rozanov.” Shane smiles at him, competitive streak urged out, the glint of fire on his features carving itself into Ilya's brain.
He reaches for the doorknob with a smirk. “What is prize? Popsicles at lunch? I like cherry flavor, you should buy enough for whole three weeks.”
“Oh, like hell I will.” Shane calls after him with a laugh. He hears it echo in the hall as he takes his exit.
He's smiling all the way to his car.