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December 2008—Regina, outside the rink
Ilya had felt unsettled since he arrived at the rink for practice in Saskatchewan. He felt a familiar pull to something. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since his mother…
But this feeling was different in a way Ilya could not put into words.
He pinched his cigarette between his lips and raised his right arm up below his face. He looked down at the palm side of his right wrist and glazed over a sentence inked in black to a burn where words used to be. His mother’s first words to him. He wished he still had it. He, at least, deserved that. If he stared hard enough at it, he swore he could still see the words beneath the scarring.
Душ а моя
My soul.
Staring intently at the burn, Ilya glazed the thumb of his left hand over it.
“You’re supposed to smoke over there,” someone said. Instinctively, Ilya clasped his left hand fully over his wrist and lowered his arms as he took a moment to translate all the words.
You’re supposed to smoke over there.
It didn’t take long for Ilya to realize why a form of those words sounded familiar. Though he hardly chose to ponder on the words above the burn anymore, they were engraved in his mind. Ilya tightened the grip on his arm, and ignored the pit in his stomach that made him feel sick, before letting it go.
He turned to the person who spoke those words and felt his stomach lurch as he recognized who it was: Shane Hollander.
Ilya’s eyes immediately went to the other man’s freckles, then to his dark eyes, then to his freckles again. Ilya then glanced away, taken aback, feeling as if he’d been hit by a truck. When he looked back at Hollander, his mind had begun to settle. Of course it was Shane Hollander who fate decided Ilya needed to be tied to for the rest of his life, the very person Ilya had already decided he would destroy. As if fate hadn’t given him enough shit already.
Ilya didn’t know what was happening but he knew this: He would not give himself away.
“What?”
Hollander paused for a moment, causing Ilya’s heart to stutter, but he knew that even if Hollander had those words on his skin, it would not be enough.
“The smoking area,” Hollander pointed to the smoking area—which was in the fucking snow. “It’s over there.”
Ilya made a show of rolling his eyes as he settled back against the wall, and lit his cigarette, regardless of what Shane Hollander would have to say about it. He noticed his hand was shaking, and hoped Hollander did not notice too.
Ilya ignored his own thumping heart and muttered in Russian before he took the cigarette in his mouth, “This fucking country.”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
So polite. Hollander was not even Ilya’s type. He was definitely—objectively, even—attractive. Cute. Whatever. But. He was too good. Too sweet. Never rebellious—Ilya had read all about Canada’s sweetheart and it did not take Ilya long after stepping foot in Saskatchewan to hear what girls thought of him. He understood but fuck, did this guy sound incredibly boring. Nothing like Ilya, who thrived off of rebellion. Why did this have to happen to him?
Ilya did not respond to the other man. He hoped Hollander would eventually get his message through the silence.
He did not.
After a few moments, Hollander continued his mission of trying to annoy the hell out of Ilya Rozanov.
“Hey, so um, I was looking forward to meeting you,” Hollander said. As if he could not stop himself, he added, “To be honest, I’m surprised you smoke.”
Ilya hummed and then blew out a puff of smoke. He could sense that Hollander was bothered by his unresponsiveness, by the way he could see him in the corner of his eye lightly clench and then unclench his fist and shift to his left foot from the right. Though Hollander’s movements seemed more uncomfortable than pissed off, it excited Ilya. He’d love to see what Hollander looked like when he was frustrated or angry. Ilya couldn’t imagine that the other man had ever been ignored before. He was practically the fucking prince of hockey right now, after all. Not for long though, because now, Ilya was here in North America and he would show them who was really worth their love and affection.
Despite his discomfort, Hollander wasn’t detoured. He held out his hand and introduced himself, “I’m Shane Hollander, by the way.”
Ilya finally turned his head back to him and willed himself not to look back down at those damn freckles. He failed. “Am I supposed to know this name? Shane Hollander.” Ilya took a hand to his mouth and hummed as he pretended to think. “No.”
Something passed across Hollander’s face that gave Ilya satisfaction. He shifted his weight back to his left foot, “No, I, I wasn’t—” Hollander stopped, before starting again, saying his next words firmly. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”
Ilya gave him a sly smile that’s gotten him punched on the ice more often than not, “Nice of you. Since you know me, I will not introduce.”
Hollander’s eyes narrowed at him, but he seemed to decide to be the better person, by the way he held his head high, “Yeah. I watched you. You’re a good player.” The words were far less enthusiastic than they were before. Dry.
“I know.”
As silence fell between them again, Ilya thought back to the moment he first set eyes on Hollander at the rink. At first, he had been angry at Hollander for trying to assess him, when Ilya couldn’t even do the same. He was annoyed by something else too—just seeing Hollander unnecessarily flogged by his parents. If Hollander was his… soulmate. He wondered if he had more than one, like Ilya did. Did he and his parents share that rare and inexplicable connection?
“Aren’t your parents waiting for you?” Ilya asked, half heartedly, turning his head to stare down at Hollander, though he would much rather not look at Hollander at all. His body didn’t seem to understand this, but it didn’t matter because it meant Ilya got to see Hollander’s eyes light up at the question.
He must love his parents very much, Ilya thought.
“Yeah, they came to see me,” Hollander, then, faltered and Ilya realized that he had given away more than he intended to the other man with the question. Ilya had only meant to signal Hollander to exit, not imply he had been paying much attention to him. Hollander shook it off and continued. “What about your parents?”
“No. Not here.”
“Sounds rough.”
“Is fine.”
Hollander seemed to decide that Ilya’s newfound receptiveness was a sign to continue the conversation. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, “It’s cold, huh?”
Ilya sighed and watched as his breath flew upward in the cold.
Fine, he thought. He would allow himself to surrender to Shane Hollander this one time and said, “Yes.”