Chapter Text
Shane didn’t mean to end up at the pond. He was supposed to stay close to the hotel, but his dad was on the phone again, pacing near the lobby windows, and his mom was talking with another parent about practice times. Shane had his skates slung over his shoulder and nowhere he was explicitly told not to go.
So he followed the road near the hotel to where he saw the small, frozen over body of water.
The park was only a few blocks away. Everything looked kind of the same to Shane. Tall buildings, gray sidewalks, snow pushed into dirty piles along the edges. The cold felt sharper than at home, like it went straight through his red jacket instead of sitting on top of it. The lake was frozen solid. Not an official rink, just a wide stretch of ice with few kids scattered across it, some with sticks, some just sliding around in boots. Shane stood at the edge for a minute, watching, before carefully sitting down to change his shoes.
He tied his skates slow. Double knots. He always did double knots. He look his red jacket off to reveal his orange jersey, maroon snow pants, and maroon hockey mitts.
Once he stepped onto the ice, he felt better. He pushed off, light at first, then smoother, skating lazy loops near the edge. He practiced stops, then starts again. He was halfway through a turn when someone zoomed past him, close enough that he sucked in a breath. The kid nearly clipped his elbow. “Hey—” Shane started, upset, then stopped.
The boy had already turned around, skating backward now, grinning like he thought it was funny. He was about Shane’s age, maybe a little smaller, bundled up in mismatched gear. His hat was pulled low, but blonde hair stuck out everywhere. His scarf was half undone and flapping behind him. He said something fast and Russian and laughed. Shane stared at him. “ох.” (oh.) the blonde said, mostly to himself.
“Sorry,” Shane tried, even though he wasn’t sure why. “I don't... know-” The boy tilted his head, clearly not understanding, then pointed at Shane. “имя?” (name?) he said, like a question. Shane blinked. “Me?” The boy frowned, then pointed at himself. “Ilya.”
“Oh.” Shane nodded quickly. He pointed to his own chest. “Shane.” Ilya smiled like Shane had passed some kind of test. Without asking, Ilya pushed off again, skating a fast circle around him, then stopping short and tapping his stick on the ice. He looked at Shane expectantly. Shane hesitated. Then he followed. They didn’t talk after that, not really. Ilya showed him things by doing them first — sharp turns, quick stops, trying (and failing) to jump a crack in the ice. When he fell, he just laughed and got back up like it didn’t matter. Shane copied him, careful where Ilya was reckless. When Shane landed something clean, Ilya clapped his gloves together like it was impressive.
That made Shane’s ears feel warm. They skated closer together as time passed, drifting toward the middle of the pond without realizing it. Sometimes they raced. Sometimes they just went in the same direction, not saying anything, breathing hard, blades scraping in sync. At one point, Shane dropped his glove. Ilya picked it up and chased him down to give it back, holding it out proudly like he’d accomplished something important.
“Thanks,” Shane said automatically. Ilya smiled cluelessly.
After a while, a woman’s voice called out from the path near the trees.
“Ilya!”
It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to cut through the sound of blades and laughter. Ilya froze mid-glide. He turned toward the shore, squinting, then lifted one hand in a lazy wave. The woman stood there with her arms crossed inside a long coat, hair pulled back, a scarf tucked up around her chin. She looked tired, but her eyes stayed on Ilya like she wasn’t planning on leaving until he listened. She said his name again, longer this time. Ilya sighed, dramatic, then skated back toward Shane. He pointed at the woman, then made a small motion with his hands like he was being pulled away.
Shane nodded and smiled. His chest felt tight in a way he didn’t have a word for. Ilya nodded, then hesitated. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of candy — slightly melted, wrapper crinkled. He held it out, expectant. Shane blinked. Then carefully took it. “Thanks.”
Ilya grinned like that was the correct answer. "Спасибо!" (Thanks!) He said, trying to communicate. He tapped Shane’s stick once, then pointed at his own chest. “Ilya,” he said again, slow this time. “Shane,” Shane replied, matching him. Ilya skated backward toward the shore, watching Shane the whole time. Just before he reached the edge, he lifted one glove in a quick wave.
Then he was gone, stepping off the ice and heading toward his mom, who immediately reached out to straighten his scarf without asking. Shane stood there for a second longer, holding the candy in his glove, a little smile on his rosy cheeks.
・・・・・
Shane’s mom straightened the collar of his jersey like it mattered. “It’s fine,” Shane said, even though he stood still and let her do it anyway. “You’re sure your neck guard is on?” she asked. “Yes,” he said again. He touched it, just to prove it was there. His dad crouched down in front of him, tugging lightly at Shane’s shin pad. “Remember,” he said, like he always did, “heads up, short shifts, pass if you’re stuck.” Shane nodded. He already knew.
The rink was warmer than the lake had been, but it smelled worse — like rubber mats and damp gear and something fried from the snack stand. His team clustered near the bench, kids bouncing on their skates, tapping sticks against the boards. Someone was already arguing about who got which line. Shane pulled his helmet on and skated out when the whistle blew, circling the ice in slow loops. He liked warmups. He practiced turns along the boards, tight and careful, then cut across center ice and did it again. The puck slid easy here, smoother than on the lake. His stick felt right in his hands.
He didn’t look too closely at the other team.
The game started loud. Whistles. He stayed where he was supposed to, skating when he was told, passing when someone called his name. It wasn’t rough. Nobody was checking. Mostly just chasing the puck in messy clusters, sticks clacking, kids tripping over their own skates and popping back up again. Shane chased the puck down the side once, overshot it, corrected himself, and kept going. His heart thumped hard in his chest, but it felt good — familiar.
Then the puck came loose near center ice.
Shane and another kid reached for it at the same time. The other kid’s helmet was crooked, chin strap loose. Light hair stuck out underneath. His eyes went wide. It was Ilya. Shane nearly missed the puck. Ilya’s face lit up like someone had flipped a switch. He smiled so big it looked like it might crack his face in half. Shane sucked in a breath and did the first thing his body told him to do. He stole the puck.
He cut hard to the left, a little sloppy because his legs felt weird all of a sudden, and heard Ilya shout something behind him — excited, not mad. Ilya chased him immediately, skating faster than before, stick tapping at Shane’s blade. Shane huffed out a breath, half laughing, half panicking. He ducked his shoulder, trying to protect the puck, but Ilya was right there, relentless. They tangled.
It wasn’t a hit. Just two kids leaning too close, sticks crossing, skates clipping. They lost balance together and went down in a heap, sliding a little before stopping. The whistle blew. Shane lay there for a second, staring up at the ceiling lights. Then he heard laughter — loud and familiar. Ilya was laughing, breathless, his helmet knocked sideways again. Shane laughed too before he could stop himself.
A ref skated over, helping them up, saying something Shane didn’t catch. Ilya nodded enthusiastically like he understood everything. As they skated back to their benches, Ilya glanced over and grinned at him again, smaller this time, like it was just for Shane. Shane gripped his stick tighter, heart still racing, and smiled back.
・・・・・
Shane was halfway through pulling his helmet off when someone grabbed his sleeve. He startled, nearly dropping it. Ilya stood there, still flushed from the game, eyes bright like he’d just remembered something important. He said something fast and excited in Russian, tugging on Shane’s arm again, pointing toward the hallway that led away from the rink. “What?” Shane asked, even though he already kind of knew.
Ilya let go long enough to mime talking — hand opening and closing — then pointed at himself. Then, carefully, like it mattered, he said, “мама.”
“Oh,” Shane said. His stomach did a small flip. “Your mom?” Ilya nodded hard. Then, as if worried Shane might change his mind, he grabbed his sleeve again and started pulling him along. They walked past the locker rooms into a warmer hallway that smelled like fries and something cheesy. Ilya stopped in front of a woman sitting on a bench near the wall. She looked up immediately. “Ilya,” she said, tired but smiling, pushing herself to her feet. She spoke quickly to him, hands coming up to fix his neck guard strap since his helmet was in his hands.
Ilya talked over her, gesturing wildly, pointing at Shane, at the rink, at the ice, making little skating motions with his hands. His mom looked at Shane. Shane didn't understand any of the Russian being spoken. Her smile softened. “Hello,” she said, careful but warm. “You… Shane?” Shane blinked. “Yes. Hi.”
“I am Irina,” she said, pressing a hand briefly to her chest. “Ilya’s mama.”
“Nice to meet you,” Shane said quickly. Irina said something to Ilya that made him grin and lean into her side, suddenly younger, sillier. He said something back that made her laugh quietly, shaking her head. She looked back at Shane. “You play very nice,” she said. “Very fast.”
“Thank you,” Shane said, ducking his head. Ilya bounced on his skates, then dug into his bag and pulled out his phone — chunky and gray, with buttons that looked too big for his hands. He flipped it open with exaggerated flair and jabbed at it, then held it out to Shane proudly. Shane stared at it for a second. “Oh,” he said again. He reached into his own bag and pulled out his phone — smaller, dark blue, the screen already smudged. He fumbled with it, fingers clumsy, until he found the numbers. They stood shoulder to shoulder, entering each other’s names carefully. Ilya squinted at Shane’s screen. “Shayn,” he said, sounding it out.
“E,” Shane added softly, pointing. “Shane.” Ilya nodded solemnly and fixed it.
A man’s voice cut in from down the hall.
“Ilya.” Ilya paused. He turned, expression changing — not scared, just… flatter. Quieter. A man walked toward them carrying a cardboard tray with fries piled high and a mess of gravy and cheese curds on top. He wore a heavy coat and looked tired in a way that felt different from Irina. Ilya said something to him in Russian, shorter than before. The man nodded once, eyes flicking briefly to Shane. Irina touched Ilya’s shoulder. “This Shane,” she said in English to the man. “He play hockey with Ilya.” The man nodded again. “Good game,” he said, accented but clear. “Thanks,” Shane said again.
Ilya looked at Shane, then back at his phone. He closed it carefully and tucked it into his pocket. He hesitated, then lifted one hand in a small wave. “пока.” (bye.) he said. His accent was thick, but the word was right. Irina spoke up. "He says bye."
Shane's lips quirked upwards and waved. “Bye!” Ilya smiled, quick and bright — just for a second — then turned back to his parents. Shane watched them go until they disappeared into the crowd, the hallway suddenly louder without them. He slid his phone back into his bag, heart feeling oddly full for something that had only lasted a day. He scampered back to his locker room where his parents waited.