Work Text:
March 2017
The morose truth about his life is that Ilya feels like the piteous stray dogs that hunt the streets of his hometown, feral, alone, and surviving on whatever scraps they can scavenge.
He rummages through the muck of his existence–his father, Alexei, his dead mother, his bisexuality–for a tiny glimmer of contentment to power him to the next. It is a bit ironic that the majority of those moments orbit about Shane Hollander, a lightning-fast, nuclearly hot center for a rival team. Like the starving dogs, Ilya doesn't question it or take it for granted. He just enjoys the private, rare, sustaining joy.
He's shunted from a heavy, post-game sleep to vivid consciousness for no apparent reason. Ilya shifts in his seat, scanning the interior of the team plane, but it's unremarkable. Dimmed amber light competing against the sharp white glare of cellphones reveal giant men in soft sweats in various stages of decompression–snoring, eating, or watching game film. There's no turbulence as their private plane glides them towards another game in Seattle.
Sighing, Ilya grabs his own phone, bypassing game film in favor of hockey highlights. Four videos in, he finds it:
Newscaster Mike Denny: It's a furious scramble to make the MHL playoffs, and no one is taking that more seriously than Metros Captain Shane Hollander.
Newscaster Sarah Delacoix: You called it, Mike. The Metros, started the season strong, but have struggled in the New Year due to injury. But as they say, you can't make diamonds without pressure. And Shane Hollander wants his rock, or better yet his cup. The numbers are insane– three goals, four assists, and an incredible 31 minutes of ice time.
Denny: A stellar performance from the young captain, and what makes it even more astounding is that it was all accomplished despite the duo Fasto and Kubal gunning for Hollander whenever he hit the ice.
The game that had been playing in the upper left corner, pixelated and blurry on his small iPhone screen, expanded to full screen. Ilya turned it sideways, maximizing his view of a blistering reel of Hollander at his best, dribbling the puck with scorching speed, feinting goalies, and making extraordinary shots and passes.
“Hollander starts the first period strong with a goal in the first four minutes and then the battle is on…” Delacroix speaks over the video as it switches to a smash-cut of Fasto and Kubal sprinting towards Hollander over a generic rock music.
Enforcing had been all but dead in hockey for at least a decade, but it was clear from the clips that these maniacs had resurrected it. Fasto, even without the pads, was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and had a face more foul than the gargoyles Russian buildings. He crushed Hollander against the boards with such force that the fan behind them spilled his beer.
Kubal, a lanky taller and slender man with pock-marked cheeks and a prominent brow, hip-checked Hollander just beyond their blue line. He crashes to the ice, sliding into the boards like a battering ramp, puck stolen. Ilya bites his lip as Hollander takes punishing hits that had his bones aching in sympathy. Ilya barks curses in Russian that has a teammate whipping his dirty socks at him. He stands, "move" he orders in Russian at Cristoph who's half-asleep and from some cursed place called Nebraska. He figures it out anyway, and pulls back his massive legs before they’re stampeded. Ilya barricades himself in the bathroom.
Denny: Check out this buzzer-beater for the win…
Shane, with Fasto and Kubal, rampaging towards him like red and blue grizzly bears, dashes sideways, evading Kubal, and rockets the puck into the net with an impressive snap shot as the buzzer sounds. But that leaves him wide-open to Fasto’s aggression. The hit lifts Hollander off his skates, into the air, and onto the ice. The Milwaukee crowd groans, the Metros cheer. Hollander manages to drag himself to his hands and knees, eyes squinting at the scoreboard, mouth-guard hanging for his teeth. He pumps a fist in the hair, sweat dripping off his face in a muted, weak celebration. And then his head falls. He blows his mouthguard out to spit blood on the ice.
Delacroix: So the Metroes are in the playoffs, no surprise there. But this is one battle in the bigger war for the Cup, especially for this injury-plagued team with their star player leaving it all on the ice. You can see here that Hollander was battle-weary by the end of the third. Let’s hope he was able to celebrate such a phenomenal game with his team.
Ilya's hand clenches around the phone as Hollander slides down to lay on the ice, sucking in air, knees wobbling. A sharp cup later, Pike helps Shane wobbly skate off the ice, hand cinched tight around his elbow.
He watches the segment again and again. Catching new details every time: Shane's slow reaction when Fasto lobs him into the boards. His rare grimace of pain when Kubal trips him, smirking as he heads to the penalty box. Shane’s head braced against his stick, padded shoulders bobbing up and down to recoup air on the bench. Shane wielding off Fasto's wild punches.
Violence is an accepted and even celebrated part hockey. Hell, Ilya’s own knuckles are still bruised from a fight last week, but this makes him angry. This is not hockey. They were intentional and hateful in their attacks. And they did it to someone Ilya cared about. Someone who was a fair player, and never resorted to dirty tricks or cheap shots.
He taps impatiently with too-big thumbs to find more footage but only confirms that Shane hadn't attended the post-game press conference or done any media, only offering a statement to the media through their coach.
"Fuck, Hollander."
He texts Shane an obscene collection of emojis, just so he doesn’t let on that fear festering in his gut.
Twenty-seven minutes later, there’s no answer. “If you’re jerking off in there, wrap it up, Rozanov, I gotta shit.”
Ilya has no choice, but to leave the bathroom, and endure the rest of the flight waiting for Hollander to respond, swallowing down the queasiness of his stomach.
He does not.
**
Hollander replies at dawn. Ilya is sitting on his balcony in Seattle, smoking to quell his concern when his phone buzzes. He flicks his cigarette away and snatches the phone from his pocket.
A simple three-word text: “I’m fine, Ilya.”
He exhales in heady relief. “Prove it.”
He sends an image seconds later, as if he knew he’d be asked for proof of life. Shane is lying in bed, pliant and shirtless, the way Ilya prefers it. But he can see that he’s carefully cropped, showing defined pecs, but no ribs. Ilya can see the pointed, translucent corners of ice bags pressed against his ribs; the swollen, reddish knob of his shoulder; the tops of prescription painkillers on the nightstand behind him.
But Shane is upright, awake, a soft smile tugging at his beautiful mouth. So, Ilya lets him have it. Lets the man who obsesses about saying the right thing, and being an inspiration role model for Asian kids to achieve their dreams, have this projection of his strength. Lets him have the fantasy since Shane, like Ilya, is a wayward dog, surviving in the same world of success, sacrifice and secrecy.
Ilya fires off a response, and heads to bed. “Can’t wait to crush you in the playoffs.”
**
The world is generally too loud–an overstimulating cacophony of expectations and desires and rituals that often leaves him confused and unnerved. Skating transforms it into a chilled, manageable quiet, even under the red and blue fanfare of professional hockey games.
Shane Hollander can handle anything as long as gets regular doses of ice under his feet. It had been 82 restless, skate-free hours since the most grueling game of his career. And he’s just now returning.
The sports media had hailed it as one of the greatest performances in the last 20 years, which only makes everything louder, and ratcheted up his aching need to skate. The rest of the team is still in the locker room, prepping for practice, but Shane had gotten there early, anxious and magnetically pulled to the smooth plane of frosty white. He takes a slow, deliberate lap, calibrating his stride to adjust for the ache in his left hip and the weakness in his lower back.
He wasn’t exactly injured after the last game, though the next morning it felt like he’d been t-boned by a mountain range. He has deep, knobby bruises that had the team physicians worried about bone contusions. Though he refused to be put on the IR, Shane had been barred from practice, subjected to rest, ice baths, massages, and hyperbaric oxygen therapy.
After two warm-up laps, Shane tucks his arms behind his back, ducking low to take a corner, like a speedskater, attempting to suss out any weaknesses or hindrances to his speed. It hurt, a sharp ache in his right thigh that bears a throbbingly warm bruise the color of an eggplant and about the same size. But deepens his breathing, and swallows it down; he would have to if he is going to maintain the same level of play throughout this playoff run. The other teams know he is beat-up at the very least, and they will exploit that to their own advantage for every second he’s on the ice.
Shane, like most hockey players, is no stranger to pain, but this would be one of the biggest challenges of his career. Just as the weight of a newer, higher expectation begins to settle on his shoulders and in his chest, metaphorical pressure becoming physical, Hayden waves him over with a whistle, clutching his cell phone.
Shane braces for an endless slideshow of his babies, and tries to invent new ways to call them cute or celebrate a milestone.
Hayden shoves the phone in front of his face the second he comes to a complete stop at the wall. “How much did you pay Rozanov to do this?” he asks, grinning.
“Do what?” Shane asked, trying to focus on the screen. He shoves it back a little and watches for a few seconds before hissing, “Oh shit.”
Shane snatches the phone and watches, jaw dropping.
Newscaster Mike Denny: “Boston Raiders Center Ilya Rozanov apparently found the shooting race too boring, during last night's home game against Milwaukee, because when he wasn’t scoring goals, he was absolutely annihilating the other team. Executing absolutely massive hits on Fasto, Kubal, Lynch, and more.”
Newscaster Sarah Delacroix: I think people forget, Mike, that on top of being one of the best scorers in hockey, he’s also an merciless and efficient defender. It’s not a switch a lot of players can make, but Rozy seemed eager to flex that muscle last night, much to the delight of the home crowd. Watch Rozy lay out Fasto at the top of the second, only to score in the two plays later.
The edits of Ilya Rozanov absolutely unleashing on the other team plays while the newscasters lob pun-heavy praise at the Raiders center. “This one is my favorite,” Hayden says as Ilya charges for Fasto as he dribbles the puck.
He skates around him, slightly ahead so he’s visible, arcs around and steamrolls into him on the boards, so hard that his helmet flies off. Only belatedly does he gain control the puck, passing it to Marleau.
“You had to cut him a check, because I know he hates your ass.”
Shane huffs a laugh, slightly too loud, and grapples for a response. “You know he’d take my money and never do a thing to them. He's just showing off.”
Denny: When asked about his performance post-game, where the Raiders won 5-1, Rozanov had this to say to the press: “Playoffs are stressful. Life is stressful. Hockey is perfect way to release stress, yes? Who needs therapy when you are hockey player?”
Delacroix: Some fans took to Twitter to wonder if this was payback, especially for Fasto and Kubal, who seemed to be gunning for Montreal Metros center Shane Hollander in last week’s game. And the Russian had this to say, “Niet. I just respect clean hockey, fair hits, and putting on a show. All my hits were clean. Did I get penalty? I did not. I am upping my hockey game play, and you saw that tonight.” As an afterthought, “Hollander has Metros to rescue him like damsel. I am eager for the playoffs and want to make sure we win.”
“So I’m freakin’ Cinderella?” Shane groans, aghast.
“Princess and the Puck,” Hayden winks, taking his phone.
Shane squirts water at him. “Fuck off. You had that ready way too fast.”
Hayden ducks and screams, even though he’s in full gear. Shane laughs, pressing a hand to his ribs. “Let me finish my laps.”
Shane pushes off the wall, swiping his phone as he does. The other players join Hayden on the ice and they start the usual pre-practice goofting off, so Shane feels secure in firing off a quick text.
“‘Rescue like damsel?’ I don’t need help, dude.”
Ilya answers almost immediately. “No, you don’t. But Russians don’t let people fuck with their family, and I don’t like bullies, so win-win.”
Family? Shane smiles, a warmth spread in his cheeks. He’s positively not blushing like a princess, even if he feels like one.
“Thanks.”
“Beat their asses next time.”
Fin