Chapter Text
Shane really fucking hated flights. Ironic, considering how often he was going to have to fly for the next four years of his career, but there was something about being shoved into a metal can in the sky for several hours at a time that didn’t sit right with him. Add on the fact that he was moving his entire life to a new city in a new country where he’d been exactly once, alone, and Shane wasn’t exactly the happiest passenger. To be fair, his parents had offered to come with him, however there was something embarrassing about having his Mom and Dad drop him off at college for preseason. He couldn’t shake the comparison of parents dropping their kid off for sleep away camp. So Shane had politely declined, arguing that this was a good test of his independence, and his parents eventually yielded. He was really regretting that decision now.
The flight from Ottawa to Boston wasn’t long, but between security and Shane’s own need to be at the airport at an “absurdly early time”, according to his Dad, he felt like he’d run a marathon. All he truly wanted to do was put his headphones on and take a nap. The plane was smaller than Shane had been expecting, and nearly every seat was full, bleary faces watching as he passed through the aisles. For once, he was glad for splurging on the slightly larger seats, if not for the assurance that he would only be crammed next to one person instead of two. And, despite his father’s teasing, 5’10” was tall, and the extra leg room was better than the alternative of eating his knees.
There was already a man in the seat next to his by the time Shane got there. From the way his legs stretched and his body curled inwards in the seat, he was tall. Brown curls brushed against his cheeks and forehead, blue eyes hooded as he seemed to stare blankly at the seat in front of him, despite the fact that there was no screen attached to the back of the headrest. He was wearing jeans and a soft looking sweater, something that made Shane feel both underdressed and absolutely insane in the warm up gearBC had given him when he had signed with them back in May. Even without the branding on his chest, Shane immediately knew the man crammed into the seat next to him, he’d seen enough of his tapes for his face to be permanently seared into his brain. Shane was half convinced he could draw him from memory. Afterall, one did not easily forget someone like Ilya Rozanov.
“Uh, sorry, I think I’m next to you,” Shane said, voice sounding much smaller than he would’ve liked. Rozanov looked up at him lazily, as if he really couldn’t be bothered to care about what Shane was saying, despite the fact that he was clogging up the aisle. He looked between the empty seat and Shane before sitting up straighter and tucking his legs closer to his hips microscopically. Shane cocked a brow. The other man simply rolled his eyes and motioned to the seat. There’s no fucking way, Shane thought, that he thinks I’m climbing over him. But the aisle was still blocked and people were starting to get annoyed, if the woman huffing behind him was any indication. So, Shane swallowed the remainder of his rapidly dissipating pride and climbed over Ilya Rozanov. It was awkward and uncomfortable and Shane hit his head against the overhead bin more than once, but at least he had gotten into his seat. Rozanov said nothing, but his eyes followed Shane’s movements, curiosity painted clearly across his blue irises.
Even as Shane settled, he felt like he was under a spotlight. Rozanov would not stop looking at him, despite not saying a word. The shorter man could feel his eyes on him as he bent over to grab his tablet and headphones out of his backpack before shoving it under the seat in front of him. Shane wasn’t sure if it would be weirder to ignore him or to try and start a conversation. How well did that go the first time, he thought to himself bitterly. You’re also going to be stuck playing against this guy for the next four years. Might not be a bad idea to make a friend.
“So,” Shane started, fumbling to get his tablet turned on. “You’re headed to Boston too?” Rozanov didn’t answer. When Shane turned to finally meet Rozanov’s gaze, the other man had both brows raised expectantly. You’re both on this flight dummy. Of course he’s going to Boston. “Ilya Rozanov, right?” His face furrowed as he nodded, the lines forming between his brows suddenly making him seem much older than eighteen. “I’m Shane Hollander. I’ve been keeping up with you. You’re an awesome player to watch.” Way to totally not sound like a stalker Shane, truly great work.
“Yes.”
It was the first and only word Rozanov had spoken to Shane since the whole interaction started. His voice was gruff, scratchy and deep like a rumble. The cabin crew were making their way through the aisles, shutting the overhead bins as an announcement rambled on from the speakers above. The Russian man next to Shane apparently thought this was the perfect time to take out his vape.
“Oh, um, you can’t do that here,” Shane rushed through the words quickly, watching with wide eyes as Rozanov held the e-cigarette up to his lips, hovering it just far enough away that the cool metal wouldn’t touch the pink of his lips. He simply cocked an eyebrow at Shane. “You’ll get fined.” He rolled his eyes with a huff but thankfully put the vape back into his pocket.
“You’re playing for BU right? That’ll be fun.”
“You will not be saying this when we beat you.” The words were slow and deliberate, so much so that Shane felt like it was more a declaration of war than a teasing comment.
“We’ll see about that.” Rozanov nodded, tilting his head as if considering.
“We will see on ice,” he said plainly, before the flight attendants interrupted with their safety briefing. By the time Shane had looked back, Rozanov had his headphones in, eyes shut. The message to Shane was clear; leave me alone. So much for making a friend, he thought. What a fucking dick.
…
Ilya was fucking exhausted. He had been flying for nearly twenty hours, his head hurt, he was tired of translating, and more than anything he wanted to be in bed and sleep for the next week. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t find a direct flight to Boston from Moscow, his only option having two layovers. America was the worst. Ilya was barely keeping it together when a familiar man stood in the aisle next to him, Ilya only catching every other word that came out of the stranger’s mouth. He had enough context clues, however, to figure out that he wanted to get to the open seat next to Ilya. If he stood, there was a good chance he’d fall over, so instead he tucked himself smaller into the seat, hoping the other man would take the hint. Instead, he stared at him dumbly. Ilya did not have the energy for this. Silently he gestured for the man to take his seat, which turned into more of an ordeal than strictly necessary. There was something about the man, however, that nagged at Ilya. He had seen him before, he knew this, but his sleep-deprived brain couldn’t quite connect the dots. Ilya’s gaze jumped from the delicate freckles that spattered themselves across the man’s cheeks, to his dark eyes and thick lashes, his closely cropped, straight black hair, to the small eagle on the chest of his hoodie, the image overlaying two neat red and gold letters. Ah. BC, Boston College, the so-called rival to Ilya’s new home for the next four years. Even in the short time he had been put in the team’s group chat, those two letters had been thrown around so often, Ilya initially thought they were a full word. It was not until his captain explained the abbreviation that he understood it was a nickname for the school. But where had Ilya seen this man before?
“So,” the familiar stranger started. He was not looking at Ilya, in fact he seemed to want to look anywhere but him “You’re headed to Boston too.” Ilya waited for something other than the obvious to grace this man’s mouth but nothing of the sort came. Instead he continued to stare at him until his nervous eyes met Ilya’s gaze. “Ilya Rozanov, right?” Despite his exhaustion and seemingly ever changing understanding of the English language, Ilya could recognize his own name, even if it did sound foreign in the stranger’s accent. “I’m Shane Hollander.” And oh, that’s why Ilya recognized him.
Shane Hollander, the number two recruit for this past year, new center for the Boston College Eagles. Any other time, Ilya would have recognized him in a heartbeat. He had been familiarizing himself with the man who was recruited just below him, watching old tapes that he had managed to scrape up from all over the internet from his recruitment days. Shane Hollander might not have been as fast as Ilya, that he was almost certain of, but his stick handling and accuracy were some of the best that Ilya had ever seen. It was almost hypnotizing to watch how a gentle slight flick of the wrist would reliably get Hollander’s name on the scoring books time and time again. Ilya would not say that he was becoming obsessed, but there may be an unhealthy fascination forming with the Canadian man sitting next to him. It is only natural, Ilya thought. Afterall, we are both centers. There had been a few small sports sites already reporting about the odds of the top two recruits ending up at Boston schools, and rival schools to boot. Ilya frankly found it all amusing.
“Yes.” He had only half caught the remainder of Hollander’s chatter, but it was enough to know the man next to him was complimenting him. Ilya wasn’t sure what else he could muster the energy to say aside from the singular word that had come out a bit rougher than he wanted. God, he wanted a cigarette. A cigarette would make this never ending nightmare of flights and his new found chatty seatmate become slightly more tolerable. Ilya, however, had been trying to be good and quit, much to the urgency of his new coaches and captain, both of whom were alarmed when Ilya came to visit before signing and found the Russian man bracing the Boston cold with an already lit cigarette in hand. He knew logically the electric cigarette in his pocket wasn’t much better for him, but it was a step in the right direction. Ilya missed the burn of the tobacco in his lungs, the feeling of that long drag, but he would have to make do. He knew he wasn’t supposed to smoke on airplanes, but the part of Ilya that cared was more focused on sleep and relief.
Shane Hollander apparently cared.
“You can’t do that here.” The words were rushed and jumped and Ilya could barely make it out but he understood the overall tone. “You’ll get fined.” Ilya sighed and put away the small cartridge that he had hoped would save him from this never ending nightmare. You need to sleep, he told himself, stop denying yourself the rest. Ilya Rozanov shut his eyes, and slept the rest of the way to Boston.