Chapter Text
Shane just needs a moment to fucking breathe and some asshole is already smoking out here.
Just a couple more days until the 2009 MLH Entry Draft. He's on the edge of the most important day of his life so far, which is going to decide the way the rest of his life goes. Thinking about it too much kind of feels like looking into a black hole.
He hasn't been able to breathe easily since... fuck, September or October, maybe? But even during the pre-season, he knew that it was imperative to perform well immediately, at the risk of not making the team for the International Prospect Cup in December. He almost hadn't been named to the team last year, he's pretty sure, and that had burned.
Mom said that people needed to see him in a Team Canada jersey ASAP to improve his chances of making the Olympic team someday -- and she's probably right, because she's usually right about these things. Yuna Hollander is very excited for the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver. Back in late November, Mom talked a little jokingly, a little dreamily about the miraculous rookie season start that could see Shane named to the team as a teenager.
"Mom, hold on, I need to actually be drafted first," Shane said wryly.
This year, he made Team Canada's roster with ease. In a total reversal, they made him the captain this year. And then he lost the Prospect Cup, in that final game in January, which meant he needed to work twice as hard to prove himself again. The Kingston Victories finished the regular season at the top of the OMJ league. It feels like Shane went straight from the OMJ playoffs into the Remembrance Cup tournament, then into the MLH Testing Combine, then back to school for his Grade 12 exams, and then immediately stepped onto a plane to Los Angeles.
His 18th birthday happened somewhere in the middle of all of that. Between the OMJ playoffs final -- Game 5 against Brampton -- and playing Drummondville a week later. On his birthday, Shane poured a beer down a sink, so he could fill the can with ginger ale, so his ecstatic teammates would stop shoving beers at him, and it worked but it also made the ginger ale taste really bad.
So, because of how busy everything has been, Shane's mom said, "Why don't we fly out to LA a week early? Do something fun?" And then later, Mom was saying things like, "I'm working on some sponsorship opportunities. Don't worry, it would be just one photoshoot," and "Oh, the MLH is interested in doing some additional promotional material with some of the elite prospects. It's important to build on this momentum from your incredible major juniors championships and, hm, also what's happening in the Superleague, in order to grow the game, with so many of these franchises struggling. That shouldn't take more than a day or two."
In the past 24 hours alone, Shane has also 1) had a friendly lunch with a Canadian Hockey Association assistant manager whose son is eligible for the Draft for this year, 2) had dinner with some hockey equipment brand representatives who just "happened" to be in town, 3) another last-minute lunch with some of his IPC teammates.
And now, instead of continuing to prove that he can be "sociable," Shane is sitting on a bench in one of the hotel's little garden courtyards with his aching head in his hands. Because he needs some air. But it's too bright and too hot in this stupid, sprawling city to go for a real walk.
And some asshole is smoking. Shane somehow managed to miss it before sitting down, but he looks up hopefully now for a non-smoking sign, even though it would probably be way easier for him to just get up and move. And...
Shane experiences a dizzying moment of déjà vu.
It's not Ilya Rozanov.
But.
The woman leaning against one of the walls here sure looks a lot like him. She has a very similar, sharp face and scattering of freckles and moles, and long, curly, golden blonde hair. She's wearing a long, black coat and has a large, leopard-print suitcase at her feet. Her pale face is tight with tension, her lips pursed in a frown, and she looks... forty-ish, maybe?
Her hands are visibly trembling. As soon as she finishes her current cigarette, apparently, she pulls another one out of a whole box in her pocket and lights it up immediately. Wow. She looks like she's having a worse day than Shane is.
The woman notices Shane staring at her and stares back, exhaling smoke. Then she pulls the cigarette box back out of her pocket and offers it to him.
"Oh, no," Shane says immediately, waving his hands in front of him. He can't look that bad, can he? "No. No, thank you. I don't smoke -- at all -- but thank you for offering."
The woman raises her eyebrows, says nothing, and easily puts the box back in her coat pocket. She inhales and exhales again. God, it smells really bad. And like the woman can tell what Shane is thinking, she points to a nearby sign.
Fuck, this is a smoking area.
Shane should really just get up and go, but before he can, the woman tilts her head, holds up a finger, drops her cigarette, and crushes it underneath her sharp heel. She leans down and rips open the top pocket of her suitcase, pulling out an open package of... cookies?
"...Oh, uh, thanks, but..."
The only Russian that Shane has ever learned revolves almost entirely around hockey jerseys. He doesn't have a hope of figuring out what any of the foreign writing on the packaging means, when the woman walks over to offer him the open package. The food inside looks like little, sugary snowballs, kind of like powdered Timbits.
Shane's mouth waters a little and it's... it's rude to refuse twice, right? He really shouldn't eat one, but this looming woman looks so expectant, shaking the package slightly for emphasis, and he only needs to take a small bite to be polite. It's probably not coated in cocaine or something. The pictures on the package make it look like these are supposed to be served with a cup of tea. Like the biscuits that Dad's elderly relatives offer visitors.
"Thank you," Shane says, taking one out of the package.
The woman nods approvingly, then sits down next to him on the bench, taking out her own powdered cookie and biting heartily into it. She chews, then looks expectantly at Shane, raising her eyebrows. Her expression almost looks challenging.
Shane takes a cautious nibble. It's... fuck, it's really good. It's all buttery and sugary and nutty and everything that he really, really shouldn't be eating. He takes a real bite.
"...This is really good," Shane says earnestly to the woman. "Thank you."
She smiles widely at him, her eyes wrinkling, and Shane notices now that she's really beautiful. Like, she's probably old enough to be his mom, so he doesn't mean this in any kind of weird way. It's more like noticing that a sunrise is actually breathtakingly pretty. It's obvious if you only take a second to look.
"Are you, uh... By any chance, do you know Ilya Rozanov?" Shane asks. "Are you here for the Major League Hockey Entry Draft?"
The woman's eyes light up. "Yes, hockey draft," she agrees, revealing a very heavy accent in just those few words. "Ilyusha is..." She puts a hand on her chest. "I am Irina Ivanova. Mama Rozanov. Ilya is... my... my... hmph..."
"Son?"
"Yes, my son," Irina nods proudly.
It's satisfying to have guessed correctly. Irina is pretty tall, even taking the heels into account, but Rozanov must have gotten any broadness from his father. As she lowers her hand again, Shane notices just how thin her wrists seem. Her collarbone is very sharply defined.
"You, uh, you look alike," Shane manages.
Irina stares at him, blinking a couple times. Maybe Shane didn't manage not to seem weird? Or maybe she didn't actually get what he was saying? Irina takes another bite of her cookie and then gestures expectantly towards Shane with that half-eaten cookie.
"Oh, uh, I'm Shane Hollander," Shane realizes, gesturing towards his own chest. "I, uh, I play hockey too. Like Rozanov. Like Ilya, I mean." He makes a weird half-gesture miming a slapshot as she talks and immediately regrets it. Is that condescending?
"Hockey," Irina repeats, smiling, not appearing offended. "You good?"
Shane huffs with surprised laughter at that bluntness. Is Rozanov's mother mocking him now? He thinks she's looking at him like she's expecting a real answer.
"Well, um, I'm projected to be drafted very highly this year, so... Some people would probably say that I'm really... I have a lot of, uh..."
Irina raises her eyebrows again.
Shane finds himself laughing a little again and says, "Yes, I'm good at hockey."
Irina nods approvingly. "Where y- Where are you from?"
"Canada. Ottawa, Ontario, Canada."
"Canada," Irina repeats. "Play my son? Inter... International Props... Pros..."
"At the International Prospect Cup? Back in January?" Shane offers. "Yeah. I mean, yes, we played each other in the final there. I played against Ilya."
Irina nods again. "I watch game. The game."
"Yes, I guess.. Of course, you would have." Shane tries not to immediately mentally replay every stupid mistake that he made in that game. "Um, Rozanov... Ilya is very good. He's a very good hockey player."
Irina smiles widely at him again. "Yes," she agrees proudly, so bluntly again.
It's no wonder that Rozanov is so loud and confident with someone behind him who clearly believes in him completely. There's no visible tension here at the moment. This woman suddenly seems so peaceful, so sure, relaxing on this bench.
"But you play next year, yes? Win?" Irina prompts, still smiling. Her tone isn't soothing in a pitying way; it's more like laying down a playful challenge.
"Uh, I mean, we're definitely going to try..."
Irina raises her eyebrows again.
"Yes," Shane corrects, smiling back at her. "Yes. I'm going to beat Ilya Rozanov at the IPC next year. I'm going to win next time, for sure."
That earns him another approving nod. "Good. Make my son, ah, make Ilya play more good. Hockey is more good when is... uh... when players more good."
"Yeah. Yeah, it is."
For a moment, Shane lets himself imagine how good it's going to feel to beat Ilya Rozanov. When the MLH season starts in the fall, wherever they both end up, and at the IPC in the winter. Shane is going to do better. And it's going to feel so good winning because Rozanov is so fucking good at hockey.
Irina beams at him again and leans in conspiratorily. "My Ilya, he... ah... he like playing you. I remember now. He say Hollander very good."
Shane can feel his face flushing with heat now. When his own mom asked about Ilya Rozanov, he called the guy a dick. He definitely can't say that to Rozanov's nice mom.
"Thank you."
Irina pats him on the knee a couple of times, before picking out another cookie for herself. She looks at the half-eaten cookie in Shane's hand and says, "Eat."
Shane eats the cookie. He's going to do more time on a standing bike or something later for this, but for now... Yesterday, the CHA assistant manager's asshole son was surprised to hear that Shane wants to play on an Olympic Team Canada someday, rather than for Japan, even though Shane isn't even a Japanese citizen. Yeah, he's eating a fucking cookie.
Irina offers him another cookie, but Shane politely declines. "I am eating," Irina declares disapprovingly, and bites pointedly into her new cookie.
Shane thinks that he's going to remember this surreal moment for a long time. Sitting in the courtyard garden of a Los Angeles hotel, as cigarette smoke slowly dissipates around them, watching Ilya Rozanov's mother spill some crumbs on her nice coat.
Irina looks a lot calmer now too. She still seems kind of pale, and her eyes definitely look a little grey underneath, but her hands aren't trembling quite so noticeably anymore.
She takes a deep breath, then stands up, and puts the cookie package back into her suitcase. Shane stands up with her.
"It is good to meet you, Shane Hollander," Irina pronounces carefully.
"Yes. Yes, this was really good," Shane agrees, holding out his hand. "Thanks, uh, thanks for the cookie, Mrs. Roz- Mrs. Ivanov. Ivanova. Sorry. Thank you."
Irina regards the offered hand with amusement first, so Shane immediately feels awkward about it, but she does take it and shake it before he can retract. Her grip is surprisingly firm for such a slender woman, but Shane still kind of weirdly feels like he's touching a bird. Something with thin skin and very breakable bones. Her skin is very soft.
"Is okay," she offers, smiling.
"Okay," Shane repeats, and he finds himself smiling back again.
When they let go, Irina announces, "I go. My son, he is... watch...?"
"Looking?" Shane suggests. "Ilya is looking for you? Probably?"
Irina nods. "Yes, looking for me." She brushes off her coat, then grabs the handle of her suitcase, only to immediately mutter something that sounds like a Russian curse when one of the wheels scrapes instead of rolling. "The airplane, they, uh, they make it... bad."
"Oh, they broke it? I've heard that can happen. I'm sorry that happened to you."
Irina raises her eyebrows at him again. "Sorry? You broke?"
Shane laughs. "No, I'm just... Here, it looks heavy. Let me carry for you? Let me help until we can find you a bellhop or something..."
Irina stands back and amusedly watches as Shane picks up her suitcase. Then she steps forward and pats him on the cheek, so bold and so gentle, which seems to be her general personality.
"Very good son," she declares. "Say your mama and papa."
Shane's face has to be visibly red now. "...Thanks."
They go back inside. Shane heads for the elevators first, but then it turns out that Irina doesn't even have her room key yet, so he switches directions in these back hallways, heading towards the front lobby.
"Do you have a reservation?" he wonders. "I don't know if there are going to be any rooms left with the way that this place is filling up for the weekend..."
Irina frowns, so maybe Shane wasn't speaking clearly enough for her. He's trying to figure out how to rephrase the question when someone else calls out to them from the other end of the hallway. Even distant, the voice sounds harsh, angry, abrupt, and Irina flinches like someone shouted directly into her ear.
Then Irina straightens her spine and schools her face into an ice-cold expression.
They both turn around to see a red-faced, middle-aged man bearing down on them, seeming to get... slower in his approach as they watch him? His chest-out, shoulders-back walk becomes almost sedate; he seems important, dressed up in a nice suit.
He clearly knows Irina. He also apparently has a lot to say to her in Russian, starting when he's still a dozen steps away, sounding cold and disapproving. His eyes flick over Shane, but without any obvious recognition, a sneer briefly twisting his lips.
Irina snaps sharply back at the man, also in Russian.
The man clearly doesn't like whatever she says. He puffs himself up even more and begins to... lecture? It sounds like he's lecturing her. It kind of feels like he should be yelling, but his voice is surprisingly even now, just... flatly disapproving. Brusque.
Irina tries to talk again, but the man interrupts before she's finished her first sentence. Irina tries to talk again anyway, louder, more upset, but the man just keeps talking over her. He sounds demanding, accusatory, but he's not waiting to hear any real answers, pausing expectantly before interrupting Irina immediately if she actually tries to speak.
Irina ends up just... standing there. Her expression is stiff. Her expression is coolly blank.
Shane recognizes the choice from some of his own experiences with shitty, slur-slinging opponents and their equally shitty parents... from a few shitty coaches and shitty officials... He's sometimes made the choice to just mentally go somewhere else for a while.
"Excuse me?" Shane tries, stepping forward slightly. He's desperately trying to remember all of his mother's more active de-escalation techniques for dealing with shitty men in hockey spaces. "Excuse me, I don't believe that we've met-?"
"Go away," the man says, heavily accented, with softness that doesn't really sound soft at all. "My wife, she will not sleep with you. Leave us."
Okay. Okay, Shane has no idea what to do with that. His brain actually feels like it freezes for several seconds, trying to compute being accused of trying to sleep with Rozanov's mom by... Is this Rozanov's dad? What the fuck is happening?
"I'm just carrying her bag?" Shane protests. "Maybe we should all take-"
Irina laughs, really loudly, and it sounds kind of... hysterical? Mr. Rozanov barks something in Russian at her, but she just laughs even louder, even more shrill.
Finally, she wipes a tear away from her eye and says in English, mostly towards Shane, partly towards Mr. Rozanov, "I do not fuck people so young, like my child."
"Uh," Shane says intelligently.
Mr. Rozanov looks like he's going to have a stroke. He snaps something in Russian again, scolding, pointing warningly towards Irina, whose response is half Russian and half laughter. Which isn't de-escalating the situation at all.
Shane checks both ends of the hallway again. Behind Mr. Rozanov, at the far end, practically peeking around the corner, there are a few people watching from a safe distance. Shit. Shit. Shane can only hope that none of those people are sports reporters. He's having nightmarish visions of someone writing a Goalhorn article about him having an affair with Rozanov's mom. His mom might kill him if that happens.
"You! Leave us!" Mr. Rozanov snarls at Shane.
There's nothing Shane wants to do more, but instead he finds himself lifting his chin, planting his feet, and holding onto the suitcase like someone might try to forcibly take it from him.
"I don't-" He clears his throat. "Your wife was just being nice-"
"He is not my husband," Irina announces abruptly in English.
Mr. Rozanov sputters and it's hard not to notice again how prominent that vein on his forehead is right now. "I am your husband!" Then he switches back to Russian and very coldly, very sharply says a bunch of things that really don't sound nice at all.
Irina looks away from Mr. Rozanov and says flatly, "We are divorced."
"Oh," Shane says. Because ohhh.
And this is when Ilya Rozanov comes running around the corner at the end of the hallway, probably following the sounds of his parents' voices. And Shane really, really wishes that he was anywhere else in the world right now.