Chapter Text
To Ilya, breaking himself had always been a comfort. When he first played in the MLH, the Boston Raiders went on a five game streak, with him at least spending a few minutes on the ice every game and getting wild applause at every home game. Until they lost.
It was stupid Florida team. They put Ilya on the ice for a full 20 minutes of the game, and even if Ilya played hard all 20 minutes; his shots declined as the game ran and the Raider’s defense was exhausted and low from the last two games putting out defense and one of the other forwards Ilya heavily respected. They were two points down when the coach pulled him off the ice and let him rest and watch.
It was hard to hear, but behind him his coaches were talking about their situation. Luckily they had a while to touch up after this, but they basically admitted defeat.
Fuck.
Ilya should have gotten just one more point. Every time he did that while in Russia he had gone to the locker rooms and spoken with the coach almost instantly.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly. “Tomorrow is late morning practice? When would the building be unlocked until?”
His coach looked at him confused. “What are you talking about, Ilya?”
“I promise you I would work hard for you,” Ilya explained. “I don’t lie. Tomorrow, when should I show up?”
“Ilya, I know you’re young and you’re having a great rookie season with us. That’s enough of an excuse for any player to put in half the effort you’re giving me. In fact, I’d say so much practice isn’t good for you. Go. Eat a big meal tonight, get a ton of sleep, and show up when practice starts. If you don’t sleep you’re dead to us. Okay?”
“Da,” Ilya nodded and left to shower.
Marleau looked at him as he left the coach to speak to someone who looked important. “What was that about, Roz?”
“Is nothing.”
When he got to the hotel he couldn’t get to sleep. His phone buzzed with The Colonel for five minutes straight as he dunked himself in the coldest water the hotel shower head allowed and scrubbed his body clean until his skin was red. Even after, he didn’t pick up the phone. He grabbed a water bottle and went downstairs to find the hotel’s gym.
It was sitting completely empty, leaving all the equipment to Ilya. His stomach growled at him but he chose to ignore that. He checked the time, determined to do something intense. At least he could tell the press he was doing amazing off the ice when inevitably they asked about the disappointment.
He first took on the bike, it was easy. He managed to get out half an hour until his thighs began to cramp up. He moved on to straight up weights until his arms felt like they could pop open. The equipment was slippery with his own sweat that had been radiating off his palms for what must havens been a hundred reps by the time he left it.
Before he knew it, Grady showed up in the gym. “Oh, hey Roz. How long have you been in here?” he asked, placing down his small iPod with earbuds wrapped around it and his water on the exercise bikes.
“I don't know. What time is it?”
“Nearly 6 am, man.”
“Shit. I meant to do more with my time.”
“Roz, you look tired. Go sleep and eat a shit ton of carbs. You played for a long ass time yesterday, and I know you’ll be on time perfectly at practice today.”
“Okay. One more thing. Then I will rest.”
Grady nodded and put his music on, leaving Ilya to wipe down an exercise mat and do as many pushups as he could possibly do. He got to the point where Grady was looking at him eyes raised and waiting for him to follow up on his promise to leave.
He was exhausted. But, he had a game with Montreal in two weeks. Games with Montreal always seemed to drive him to insanity. He felt like if he laid down his sobs wouldn’t stay quiet and the whole building would hear 200 pounds of pure muscly brick wall shaking the building with weakness. So instead he ran. First around the block twice, then just in one direction until he couldn’t anymore. His clothes were getting cold with the sweat and his lungs were absolutely burning to a crisp more than they had ever before. Even when he first smoked a cigarette before a workout session only slightly less intense than this the first time his lungs didn’t feel this prickly and overworked.
He jogged to the hotel, seeing his teammates in the lobby eating breakfast, among them being Grady.
“Roz! Go get some fucking shut-eye, huh?!” he called.
Ilya rolled his eyes and got into the elevator. He finally climbed into a warm shower so at least he could have a moment to think. There were only a few hours until their early practice that day and he could totally sleep after that. He dried off and finally went to eat food.
He sat at the table where the group he had walked past earlier, now with a few additions, still sat.
“Roz, did you sleep at all last night?” Grady asked, seeing his overworked eyes.
“Yeah, rook. You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”
Ilya’s mind was still too pissed about the whole three hours of nonstop intense beating movement to understand enough English to chat. “Ya khorosho, spasibo.” I’m fine, thanks.
“Man, you should skip practice today,” Marleau suggested. “You look a little sick. I’m sure the coaches will understand.”
Ilya shook his head instantly. “No, is okay. I am fine. Can sleep after practice.”
“Okay Rozy.”
He took a cab to the rink and geared up, nearly forgetting how to put on the same thing he did nearly every day. His muscles were still sore from the game last night and the subsequent morning he had forced himself into. When he got onto the ice, his legs shook and he kept his head low as the coach spoke to them.
“Alright guys! I was us to remember that the five streak was amazing, and to not push ourselves because of Florida. We’re gonna run a game for about an hour then we’ll get you all some heavy food and do a little meeting in the locker rooms then you all go to the hotel and relax. Alright?”
Ilya was, frankly, playing like he did when he first was even considering he could do hockey.
“Hey, Roz! Over here!” one of the assistant coaches beckoned.
Ilya nodded and skated to the bench. “Yes?”
“Buddy, come sit down,” he said.
“What? Why?” Ilya asked.
“How long have you been awake?” the Raider’s head coach questioned, looking at Ilya's squinted eyes.
Ilya looked at his feet and avoided the look his whole team was giving him from the ice and the eyes of his coaches. “I’m okay.”
“It’s half an hour off. Any sane person would take it.”
Ilya shook his head and skated back to the offensive side of the ice, continuing to be on the aggressive side for the rest of the scrimmage.
By the time food was served Ilya halted and stopped moving his feet. Before his mind could catch up with bringing him to the locker rooms he slammed into the wall and fell. Luckily almost the whole team wasn’t watching anymore, it seemed only the assistant coach actually saw it happen. He instantly alerted the head coach and called out to Ilya, who was still lying on the ice.
“Ilya!” he yelled across the rink.
Ilya stayed on his back, feeling his head rush with a deep ache. His arms and legs felt like jelly and the skates on his feet made him feel like he was Bambi for the first time since he was less than a year old. He didn’t really realize he was being hauled up and shuffled to the locker room until he landed on a bench.
“Okay, everyone, help yourself to as much as you can eat, and does someone mind loading up a plate for our star player here?” the assistant coach asked.
Marleau nodded and left Ilya to sit on his own for a moment before their head coach sat next to him. "Load it up, Marleau." He paused for a moment while all the other players filed to the table full of food. “We’re sending you back to your hotel, someone’s going to go with you to make sure you actually get rest. Got it?”
Ilya shook his head. “No, is okay. Off day.”
“Sit and eat. Who do you want to go with?”
Ilya shook his head. “I’m fine, what’s the deal, huh?” He looked at his coach, feeling his eyes water from being open for too long.
“Ilya. Come to my office.”