Chapter Text
December 2008
Ilya could feel the pressure physically. The weight of expectation bound his chest, and he took a drag of his cigarette to force his lungs to open, then close. Somehow, it helped him breathe. It eased the constricting feeling pressing in on him.
He could picture his father preparing to watch the game with his colleagues, where his son would make Russia proud. Old men sitting in a bar halfway across the world, drinking regardless of the time of day. Smoking because the occasion demanded it.
Ilya took another drag, deeper, making his lungs open and close. It was a habit he knew he should break. But breathing was important for staying alive, apparently.
“You’re not supposed to smoke there,” a voice said.
He caught the word smoke. Not supposed to, or supposed to? He was not sure.
He looked up and saw Shane fucking Hollander. Of course. If pressure could take a physical form, it would look exactly like Shane fucking Hollander. How could something so hellish appear in such an angelic face? He had seen him before, on television. Whenever Ilya’s name was mentioned, Hollander’s followed. One breath of Ilya Rosanov naturally led to the contrast of Shane Hollander.
A smattering of freckles across pale skin. Dark hair. Wide, open, clear, trustful eyes. How could eyes like that exist here? How could someone at this level of sport still look as if he lacked killer instinct? It had to be a guise. Ilya had seen the footage. Hollander had a killer instinct on the ice.
Ilya came back to himself and realised Hollander had been staring at him, waiting for a response, while he had been thinking about his fucking eyes. Fine. Be serious. Serious, like he had practised his entire life. He took another second to centre himself.
“No?” Ilya said. An easy word in English, one he knew confidently.
Hollander’s eyes widened further, like a deer caught in headlights. He seemed stunned that a comment had been answered, as if he had not expected a response at all.
“I’m Shane,” he said, reaching out a hand across the gap between them. The long gap. He was at least ten metres away.
He seemed to realise this too, blushing a deep red as he stepped closer, his hand still extended. His eyes stayed wide, his mouth lightly tense, waiting. My God, this innocence. Did people like this actually exist?
“I’m Shane,” he repeated. “Shane Hollander. And you’re Ilya? Rosanov?” he asked, hope creeping into his voice. A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
He knew me?
Ilya knew he had been in the news, but that was Russian news. America was far away, and junior leagues did not get much coverage.
Ilya looked back into his eyes and noticed a faint tension there now. Hollander had been watching him closely the entire time.
“Yes,” Ilya said.
He snuffed out his cigarette and took Shane’s hand firmly, the way a proper handshake should be.
Shane visibly deflated, like a balloon losing air. Ilya could see the release of pressure as soon as their hands met.
The relief came with a blinding smile, so wide Ilya could see his canines in full display.
“I’ve been following your career,” Shane said, his smile almost dazed. “You’re the biggest competition I have this year. I’ve never been compared to someone so closely. They seem to think it will be Rosanov versus Hollander at the NHL draft.”
He said their names together, the same way Ilya’s father did. But where his father spoke Hollander with disdain, a sneer twisting the word, the bright eyes in front of him said it like a favourite phrase. Hollander and Rosanov. Rosanov and Hollander.
“Yes,” Ilya said again.
“I’m glad I met you now,” Shane continued. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you on the ice. Your stick work is fascinating, and I’ll be glad to play against you and see what I can learn. You’re looking forward to the game?” He was still smiling. Still glowing.
“Yes,” Ilya said. He knew this question. He was often asked if he was excited.
And he was. Hockey was his life. It made his blood run fast, and he was good. Very good. He had worked hard to be here, to play at this level, halfway across the world against the best.
And the other best was standing in front of him, still holding his hand.
Ilya cleared his throat. “Yes. Excited.”
Shane beamed, as if sunshine radiated from his eyes and smile. In the middle of the snow, he seemed impossibly warm. His whole body vibrated with energy. He might have been magic, close to levitating.
“Good, good,” he said. Then he straightened, puffed out his chest, and launched into a rush of words. “We should be friends then. We’ll be playing at the same level for years, and I would love to have someone who understands what it’s like. There’s nobody else I can really compare to. It’s always been me at the top. Either I’m compared to players who have been around forever, or I’m placed above guys my age who are good but not like us. My mum keeps saying I should interact more with my peers, but there’s nobody I can picture next to me. Except you, Rosanov.”
He deflated again, this balloon of a human, filled with too many thoughts and feelings.
But Ilya understood.
There was only them. Rosanov and Hollander. And they both worked hard to keep it that way.
Ilya looked at the freckles, the wide eyes, the hand still clasped in his, and he wanted it. Someone who understood.
“Yes. Friends,” Ilya said.
The canines appeared again in full force as Shane rushed forward and hugged him, still not letting go of his hand.
They were the same height, something Ilya was not used to. Shane’s arm wrapped around him, his chin resting briefly on Ilya’s shoulder. He relaxed for a moment before stepping back, still holding on, only then seeming to notice.
His eyes flicked to Ilya’s watch and widened again. Again. Maybe they were always that large.
He looked back up and said, “I’m late, but I’ll see you soon, okay? Good luck for your lead-up game. I’ll make sure to watch it. Come watch mine again the US if you have time?”
Shane finally released his hand and walked backwards towards the rink door.
“Rosanov?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ilya said.
Shane beamed.
“Yes,” Ilya said again, louder, more confident.
“Good luck, Hollander,” Ilya added.
He felt the slight lift of his own lips. The warmth of this person was clearly contagious. He was not used to such open expressiveness.
The image of wide eyes and a sharp, canine smile stayed with him as he heard the rink door close behind Shane.
Ilya looked down at his hand. It felt as if Shane’s imprint was still there.
His future was clear.