Chapter Text
The San Francisco Sea Lions play in Montreal at the end of March, and Hayden tears his fucking shoulder checking one of their kids into the net. Shane watches the replay on the jumbotron after Hayden’s been ushered off the ice and back to medical. It’s a total freak accident on both their parts, Hayden covering the Sea Lion’s D-Man and the kid small enough that he just sort of gets underfoot by accident.
It’s a toss-up of who looks more distressed in the aftermath, the rookie or Hayden, but at least the kid’s got nothing but a bloody nose from the whole thing. It’d suck to add child abuse to Hayden’s list of current concerns, Shane thinks.
He’s put on IR for the rest of the season, obviously. It sucks, but they’ve only got two more games in the regular season, and then hopefully one of those legendary play-off runs that end with a Cup, the kind that Shane’s only experienced twice before.
If it had to happen, at least it happened so close to the summer, is all Shane’s saying, though he’s definitely not stupid enough to say this to Hayden’s face.
“Fucking sea lions,” he says instead when he visits him in the hospital the next day. It’s gonna be a surgery, apparently, but a minor one. Hayden’s not too worried about it, but maybe that’s because they’ve kept him pumped full of drugs since he was admitted last night, and plus Jackie’s worried enough about it for all three of them.
“She’s just worried that if I’m laid up in bed all summer, I’ll lose my manly physique,” Hayden tells him in an undertone when Jackie’s outside the room talking with his doctor.
“Yeah, that’d be my top concern too,” Shane says. “Not, like, having to survive the whole summer of taking care of four kids and a kid husband all by myself.”
“Jacks won’t be by herself,” Hayden replies, taking a sip of his juice box. “She’ll have you around, won’t she, bud?”
“Ha ha,” Shane says. “Here, I got you this.” He reaches into the bag at his feet and pulls out a sea lion plush to set on the tray in front of Hayden. He’d driven up to Quebec City for it and paid the thirty-five dollar aquarium entry fee just so he could go to the gift store and buy it. “For next time you wanna rough up a sea lion. This one has a softer head, I think.”
“Fucking sea lions,” Hayden groans with relish, the moment he sees it. He grabs it anyway and tucks it into the crook of his arm. “You know the rookie came here with his mom? To apologize to me?”
“With his mom, wow,” Shane says, and he’s grinning. It’s okay though, because Hayden’s also grinning, eyes wide and a bit dopey, which might just be the drugs. “Did she have to drive him here, do you think?”
“Like what do I even do with that?” Hayden’s complaining. The sea lion plush looks pretty sad about that, but maybe it’s just the embroidery stitching of its mouth. “It’s like—if Rozanov sent me a get well soon card, you know?”
Shane chokes on his next inhale. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah. Totally.”
“I bet he laughed about it,” Hayden’s eyes unfocus, lips turning down into a scowl.
“No, pretty sure the rookie was crying,” Shane tells him. “Think you were his first NHL casualty. Like, on a technicality. Even though you nailed him.”
“No, not Junior,” Hayden says. “Rozanov.” He spits Rozanov’s name like a curse word, which is, at least, par for the course with Hayden. “I bet he heard about it and he laughed from wherever he is.”
Shane shifts in the hospital seat, feeling the back of his neck heating up. His phone is burning a hole in the pocket of his joggers. The last thing Ilya had texted had been, in fact, a string of laughing emojis and a link to an article about Hayden Pike eating net after trying to beat up a child, but he’d at least waited to make sure that the injury wasn’t serious before he texted.
Shane’s not going to say this though. He wouldn’t want to kick Hayden when he’s down—sea lion plush aside.
“Hey,” Hayden says suddenly, an accusatory note in his voice that makes Shane freeze. Can Hayden read thoughts now? Did Hayden just hear that? Was Shane talking out loud by mistake? Hayden raises a threatening finger. “Hey, you gotta promise me, Hollander. Whoever they call up from the Suburbs, you better not like them more than me. I’m coming back, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, man,” Shane tells him, heart rate slowing back to its normal crawl. Fuck. How can it feel like a close call when he’s just being stupidly paranoid over nothing? He clears his throat and stands up, rubbing his hands along the tops of his thighs and tucking them into his pockets. “Can I at least win a Cup with your replacement or do you think that’ll get in the way of your mental journey towards recovery?”
Hayden hums, tilting his head back and forth. Yeah, the drugs have definitely kicked in. “You can win one cup with him,” he tells him magnanimously. “But I better still be your favorite player in the league when I get back on the ice next season.”
“Hah,” Shane says. His phone is burning against his leg again. There goes his heart rate, ticking up. At least Hayden's attached to the heart monitor and not him, so no one else notices the change. “No promises, dude.”
Montreal’s second-tier professional ice hockey team, the one that plays in the AHL, is officially called the Montreal Magnitudes, which everyone agrees is a stupid team name so everyone just calls it the Suburbs instead. Shane isn’t sure that’s much better, but it’s not exactly official or anything. It’s apt, at least, for the team that’s on the permanent peripherals of the Montreal Metros.
It works like this. When a Metro player gets injured, the coaches put their heads together and select a player from the ‘Burbs to move up to the major leagues for a handful of games. They’re always workshopping their shortlists, trying to find the best second-string guy, the one who clicks with the team, who won’t need a month’s worth of practices before he’s connecting on passes and sending pucks into the net like he’s been playing in the MLH for ages.
It’s a tall order, and Shane can’t imagine the pressure those guys feel when they get the call. The dream’s probably never felt closer: score enough points, perform well enough, maybe you get to stay at the MLH level. Maybe the guy you’re covering for has to go on LTIR, maybe you get sent back down but the coaches ask for your contract next season anyway because you’ve managed to wow them with your chemistry, your talent, your hockey IQ. Maybe the guys on the ‘Burbs gather around their TVs and their phones and their iPads every game day and pray that a Metros player gets crushed into the boards or shatters his ankle on a bad turn or goes shoulder first into the net cause some eighteen year old kid popped up underneath his arm like the second-coming of Christ himself. Maybe every ‘Burb player sleeps with his phone on high volume, in case the next time it happens, it’s his turn.
Which is all to say that when Shane gets to practice the morning after he leaves Jackie to handle her drug-upped husband and Shane’s best friend, he’s only a little surprised to find that he’s the second person in the locker room. That hasn’t happened in years, but he thinks—if it were him, called up and given one opportunity to finally catch the dream he’s been chasing for years, he’d probably sleep at the rink.
It’s only a little awkward because the assistant’s cleaned out Hayden’s locker for the call-up, and it’s right next to Shane’s. So even though the room is quiet and deserted, Shane has to sidle up next to the guy and put his stuff down beside him like they’ve known each other for years.
“Hey, I’m Shane,” he greets, sliding his equipment bag off his shoulder and sitting down on the bench. He feels a bit like he’s just entered the restroom and decided to use the urinal directly next to someone else, but then—he’s the fucking team captain. He’s got nothing to be embarrassed about. This is his locker room.
The guy looks sideways at him, hands pausing on the laces of his skates. From this close, it’s impossible to miss just how big the guy is, shoulders broad and packed with muscle under his practice jersey. And, yeah, some of that’s the pads he’s already put on, but definitely not all of it. His head is square and made up of sharp lines, eyes and nose and lips all vying for room on his face.
His smile is as pockmarked as his forehead and hairline; Shane counts three missing teeth before he speaks. “Yes, Mr. Hollander, I know this.” He sticks his hand out. “Sergei Dovonchezky. From the Magnitude. Is great opportunity to be here. I am very happy to play.”
“Oh,” Shane says, which isn’t what he means to say at all. “You’re Russian.”
Dovonchezky cocks his head, heavy eyebrows slanting across his face. “Sh,” he says, and his tongue pokes out between one of the gaps in his teeth. “Is secret I am trying to keep. I am, how you say, beneath the covers.”
Shane lets out a startled laugh, and Dovonchezky grins like he’s just been given a special prize.
He’s young, Shane realizes. Not rookie young, but definitely a few years younger than Shane. He looks like he can’t be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one. It’s like someone stretched him out, height and breadth wise, gave him the proportions of a man, but forgot to age his face too.
“No, uh, sorry, I just meant—”
There’s not really a good way to finish that sentence, because the truth is too incriminating to say. It also makes Shane feel stupid just to think even in the privacy of his own head.
It’s not like Ilya Rozanov’s the only Russian in the league. Far from it, really. There’s a bunch of Russians in the league actually. Enough that they apparently have their own group chat, though Shane isn’t sure if he should believe Ilya when he says that or not. It’s always a toss-up with Ilya, especially when they’re speaking over FaceTime and Shane can’t get a read on his face in person.
So Ilya’s not the only Russian Shane’s ever met on the ice, and it’s not like Ilya’s got some kind of claim over the entirety of the Russian language or the country itself or speaking Russian-accented English or saying, how you say.
It’s just that Shane can’t even walk by a flower shop without thinking about whatever the last thing Lily texted him was, so he’s sort of hopelessly obsessed with Ilya Rozanov at this point. Of course Shane’s thrown off to see another Russian. Of course Shane’s immediately thinking about his Russian.
Or, not his Russian.
Just the Russian he knows. Intimately.
Beneath the covers, one could say.
“It’s undercover,” Shane tells Dovonchezky before he wonders if correcting his English is rude. It never is with Ilya, but that’s Ilya. That’s different. Ilya’s always different. “Er, sorry. I didn’t mean—your English is very good.”
Dovonchezky’s chest puffs out, and he grins down at Shane like he’s never been bothered by anything at all in his life. “Is kind of you to say,” he replies. “More kinder if you say in front of my team. There is bet in Magnitude locker room about if I can learn better English this season than Matty. Tremblay,” he adds when Shane just blinks at him. “Our goalie. He is from Quebec, very north. He already knows English, but he talks like he forget this.”
“Might not be the Quebec thing,” Shane points out. “Might just be the goalie thing.”
Dovonchezky barks out a laughter that sounds like a goal horn, and Shane finds himself smiling back at him like it’s easy. It’s never been easy before, and that takes him by surprise.
For all he contributes to the locker room dynamic as the guy they chose to wear the C, for all he gives pretty decent hype speeches and fairly inspirational we’ll get ‘em next time pep talks after losses, he’s never been able to follow along, beat for beat, with the guys when they’re talking shit before practice or after games. That’s just not a muscle he knows how to stretch. If it weren’t for Hayden and Ilya, he’d be pretty sure that he was born without it completely.
“If you want to get on the ice now, I could use a bit of help setting up some of the cones for practice,” Shane says, yanking his bag closer to him so he can start pulling out his gear. “The team’s not going to get here for another thirty, but no reason we can’t warm up the ice for them, yeah?”
“Oh,” Dovonchezky says, and when Shane shoots him a sideways look, he looks deeply awed. Like he’s just been handed something very precious. Like his dream’s never been closer to his grasping hands. “Yes, I would like that very much, Mr. Hollander.”
Shane winces, automatic. “Really,” he says. “Just call me Shane.”
Dovonchezky’s nose wrinkles. “Is not a good hockey name,” he informs him. “You do not have nickname, Mr. Hollander?”
Shane blinks. “Uh,” he says.
The first name that pops into his head is, of course, Jane. Which isn’t something he’d confess on pain of death, like. Not even to his mom.
Then, just as unhelpfully, Shane’s mind conjures up a sense memory of Ilya’s sparkling eyes and red-wet mouth pressing into his sternum as he whispers filth in Russian just barely loud enough to reach his ears.
For the longest time, he’d been sure Ilya was calling him something dirty and degrading in moments like that, something like desperate slut or easy whore or something even worse.
Then, a week ago, after an X-rated Skype call between them the night before Ilya was set to fly back to the States, he’d paid enough attention to Ilya’s words to memorize the rough consonants of them—just enough to look the more frequent offenders up on Google after they’d hung up.
And then he hadn’t known what to do with the information that instead of cock-hungry slut or something, Ilya’s been running his mouth and calling him kitten in the heat of the moment.
He still doesn’t, if he’s being honest.
But that’s not exactly something he’s going to tell Dovonchezky either. Or anyone. Like, ever.
So he shrugs. “Not really,” he says, trying to make his shoulders relax, like he’s not thinking about another Russian player taking him apart piece by piece and calling him sweet words while making him come on his cock. He clears his throat and busies himself with untying his shoes. “Sometimes the guys call me captain. Like, when they remember.”
“That is very sad,” Dovonchezky tells him, sounding solemn. “Little names are very important. Like, you see, my sister in Russia calls me Seryozha because I am very tall now but always her little brother. And here, my boys call me Chex-Mix, which is worse than Seryozha, but is something. Is delicious food. I will find you delicious food, Captain.”
“You really don’t have to,” Shane says. He isn’t sure he can take being called, like. Hollandaise or something. He thinks Ilya would laugh about it forever.
Which would suck as much as it would maybe be alright.
It’s been six days since Ilya arrived back in the States after his father’s funeral, and there’s another week before Boston comes to Montreal for their last game of the regular season. They’ve been texting constantly since January, since the All-Stars Weekend that Shane’s taken to calling their turning point in his head. He can’t think of a better name for it. For that night when Ilya found him on the beach, when he walked into Ilya’s hotel room in Tampa and left a few hours later with the bone-deep certainty that he was in love with Ilya Rozanov.
Their turning point. Shane’s, at least.
So it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have Ilya Rozanov laugh at him, not anymore. Shane sort of loves the sound of his laugh these days. It’s really stupid and all kinds of pathetic, but it’s the truth.
Like he knows Shane’s thoughts have strayed to him, Shane’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It could be his mother. Or Hayden. Or Jackie. Or JJ. Or anyone else.
But it could be Ilya, and so his heart picks up its pace the way it always does when his lock screen lights up with a notification from Lily.
His fingers itch to check immediately, but that’s rude and Shane’s been raised better than that. So instead, he carefully works his shoe off his foot and reaches out to tap Dovonchezky on the shoulder. “You can workshop it then,” he says. “Let me get changed and I’ll be out on the ice in a second, Chex-Mix.”
Dovonchezky’s grin is bright and boyish. There’s not a single shadow on his face. “Yes, Captain,” he tells him, leaning back into his stall to grab his helmet from his bag. He pauses, gets a sly look on his face that just looks out of place on the guy. “In Russia, maybe it is Shanya. If you like.”
Shane blinks. At least it’s not Hollandaise.
Or kotik.
“Sure,” Shane shrugs. And then, because he’s been burned before, he asks, “What’s that mean? Like, in Russian?”
“Is nothing,” Dovonchezky says. “Is just Russian little name. For friends and teammates and annoying sisters to use.”
“I’m an only child,” Shane says blankly, and Dovonchezy just grins at him, gap-toothed and young and hopeful. Dream so close to his fingers. His first practice in the MLH, and he beat Shane to the locker room. Fuck, he can call Shane whatever he wants if he’s as good on the ice as he is eager to be there.
Shane nods him off and then waits until the Russian’s safely out of the room before he tugs his phone out of his pocket.
It is a text from Ilya, which does nothing to calm Shane’s heartrate. It’s nothing important, just llya wondering how much bad luck it would be to skip growing the playoff beard this year. Apparently, it’s a pain to groom, and Ilya’s very confident that the Raiders will make it all the way, which would be almost four whole months from now. Four whole months of keeping his beard presentable.
Shane pauses, thinks about it. His playoff beard is infamously patchy and horrible and can hardly be called a beard at all, which everyone loves to remind him about. Give the chance, he’d skip the humiliation ritual of growing it in a heartbeat if he thought his team would let him get away with it.
But…
He sends two thumbs down emojis to Ilya, because he has very strong feelings about seeing Ilya grow out his facial hair—all of which consist mostly of fantasies about how the short hairs would feel running over the insides of his thighs and along the sensitive skin of his throat.
After a moment with no forthcoming reply from Ilya, he puts his phone down on the bench next to him so he can start changing out of his sweats and into his gear.
He only checks the message thread twice in between getting his pads on and yanking his jersey over his head.
It’s ridiculous, the way being in love with Ilya Rozanov has reduced him to a middle schooler with a crush. After every practice, and even during intermissions of actual games, Shane’s checking his phone to see if he has a text waiting.
And every time he does, it’s like he’s just gotten a shock to the heart with a pair of charged defibrillator pads, even if all Ilya’s texted is something small and stupid. Like a smiley face or a meme or a random thought that’s entered his mind. It’s just—after so many years of having Ilya’s body, of kissing him and fucking him and sharing late nights and shadows with him, Shane’s unused to how it feels to see the rest of Ilya. To see Ilya.
He likes it. Every small piece of him he gets, everything he’s learned about him since the All-Star Weekend in Tampa. His knees feel all bruised from how quickly and totally he’s tumbled into loving Ilya Rozanov.
Eight years of fucking him beforehand, aside.
In the Metros’ locker room, Shane sits down on the bench to force his skates on. He checks his phone again—no text, which is only a very small let-down. Ilya is probably on his way to his own practice with the Raiders. And if he’s not, it’s not as if Shane’s left much of an opening for conversation anyway.
Two thumbs down? That’s only a little better than just leaving him on read.
He pauses with his right skate half-on, half-off and rereads Ilya’s last message, running his hand over his cheek. His face feels warm. He must look like an idiot, sitting alone in his locker and blushing.
Like a damn middle schooler with a fucking crush.
He wants to say something about how much he likes Ilya’s playoff beard, but it’s not that easy. On one hand, he actually really hates Ilya’s playoff beard, because if Ilya’s growing out his beard then that means the Metros will probably have to face the Raiders, and that’s always a tough series of games. Especially considering that they’re both too competitive to allow sex during the playoffs, so all of the on-ice tension has nowhere to go for months afterwards.
On the other hand, he really likes Ilya’s playoff beard because Ilya Rozanov is maybe the most handsome man Shane’s ever laid eyes on, and he could get a buzz-cut for the playoffs or a mohawk or one of those triangle-shaped goatees that only ever look weird and greasy, and Shane would still love it.
So for obvious reasons, Shane’s not really going to text him that either. He knows, logically, that he has to do something about his growing feelings for Ilya now that he's admitted them to himself. But he also knows he’s not going to do anything over text.
He’s been thinking, you know. Maybe after the season is over. Whichever way the playoffs end, whenever they end, maybe Ilya can come with Shane to his cottage for a few weeks. He thinks that would be…nice. He thinks it would be really, really nice.
And then he could tell him. About his feelings. And they could—
Shane doesn’t know. His imagination has only ever gotten him so far. He can picture Ilya in his cottage, wrapped up in one of the throw blankets that Shane’s grandmother crocheted and then ran out of space for in her own house. He can picture Ilya out on the dock, shirtless with the soles of his feet just kissing the top of the water. He can picture them together in his bedroom, between the sage green sheets and with the light from the windows spilling over their named skin.
He just can’t picture what Ilya would say, if Shane ruined everything by asking for more.
His knee bounces. Still no text. Not even a bubble.
Shane bites his lip and looks around the empty locker room for inspiration. His eyes fall on Dovonchezky’s bag, stuffed into Hayden’s empty locker.
Jane:
Hey, I have a quick Russian question for you.
He barely has to wait a second before a bubble appears. He doesn’t even have to wait five before Ilya’s replied. That eases something in his chest that he didn't even realize had felt tight.
Lily:
You have asked the right person, I am expert in Russian.
Jane:
What does Shanya mean? Like in Russian.
Lily:
Hm
What is context? Do you spell right?
Jane:
I think so
Just like it’s not like something dirty or anything right
Someone said it to me
He said it was like a Russian little name? For me
Just wanna make sure i shouldn’t be making him do bag skates or anything.
Like it’s not vulgar or something.
Shane raises his thumbnail to his mouth and bites at the edge of it as he watches Ilya type, delete, type something else. The bubble disappears completely for a moment. Then it returns.
Lily:
haha what
who is saying this to you
Shane frowns. Before he can respond, Ilya’s already texting again. Once, twice, three times in a row.
Lily:
no i am serious who is saying this to you
hollander
hollander
shane.
“Is that the call-up from the ‘Burbs on the ice already, Cap?” JJ asks, blowing into the locker room with a bang of the door that’s loud enough to startle Shane into fumbling his phone. “Eager beaver, huh?”
“Shit,” Shane curses, barely stopping himself from clutching his phone to his chest like an old maid. Or like a guy looking at porn in the locker room. He isn’t sure which one is worse, but JJ’s staring at him with both eyebrows raised anyway. It makes him flush, and he tosses his phone away, back into his locker, face down.
Now JJ definitely thinks he’s been looking at porn. Which is shit, but Shane can’t think about that. He’d really rather JJ think that than think that Shane’s been—sitting here, texting the enemy and blushing and kicking his feet while doing it.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, clearing his throat and leaning down to tie up his skates. “Yeah, that’s, uh. Sergei Dovonchezky from the Magnitude. He beat me here.”
“Damn,” JJ looks impressed for a moment before his eyes stray behind Shane’s hip, where his phone has begun to rattle from the force of its buzzing ringer. Ilya is trying to call him. “You gonna get that, Captain?” he asks after ten seconds or ten years go by in awkward silence.
“Uh, no,” Shane says. He can feel his face radiating heat, and it's just JJ, but Shane still sort of wants to die because there's no way he's playing this as cool as he needs to. But there’s also no fucking world where he picks up his phone at the moment and answers Ilya’s call. Ilya’s fine. He was texting just a moment ago, so he’s not in, like. A crisis or anything. He’s fine. Shane will text him back after practice.
His phone stops buzzing; a moment later, it starts again.
Shane reaches behind himself blindly to grab his phone and power it off. He stuffs it into the bottom of his bag and stands up from the bench. “No phones during practice,” he tells JJ, going for gruff and serious, like a Captain should sound. He must miss the mark by a mile though, because JJ’s eyebrows haven’t settled back down on his face. "I'm gonna go--help Chex-Mix with the cones."
"Chex-Mix?" JJ repeats, bewildered.
"Don't ask," Shane mutters. "Just--get the guys out on the ice as soon as they get in, alright? We gotta test the lines without Hayden."
So, really, Shane decides, striding out of the locker room with one skate still loose, the embarrassment burning in his chest is Hayden's fault. Hayden's and that fucking Sea Lion rookie's.