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See you at final. Ilya was a little proud of himself after he said it. It was easy to take pride in that interaction that left Hollander—golden boy Hollander, freckled-face Hollander—at a loss for words. He feels a little embarrassed about those words when they see each other again. Not at the final, but in the parking lot of their hotel.
Maybe Ilya should feel incredulous about the fact that Team Russia and Team Canada are both staying at the same hotel. But that hotel is The Hotel Saskatchewan, located right in the heart of downtown Regina and just ten minutes by car from the Brandt Centre, the rink chosen for the 2008 World Junior Hockey Championships. It's one of two hotels that the International Ice Hockey Federation and Hockey Canada picked for teams to stay at. It's not insane that Team Russia and Team Canada wound up in the same one.
What does feel insane is the fact that Regina, Saskatchewan has more than one hotel.
Ilya has been to plenty of dogshit small towns buried in the depths of a desolate winter. Regina manages to be one of the worst he's ever seen. Its joke of an international airport is about the size of an elementary school. The trip downtown had them passing just an open stretch of snowy fields that seemed to stretch for miles, right in the middle of the city. They're down the road from a casino, the only thing to do that Ilya's seen in the city so far, and it has a completely empty parking lot.
Regina, Saskatchewan, Ilya decides, is a place for broken people. One must be broken to survive here.
But Ilya will be leaving in a week, so there is no need for him to break. If anything, he should avoid it, because there are games to play and gold medals to win. He has an entire country to represent.
When they return to the hotel late in the afternoon, abandoning the ice for the American team to use, Ilya does not subject himself to his teammates. They have been completely oblivious to the slowly-building tension that's been winding its way through Ilya's jaw. If Ilya even tries to entertain these boys and their childish nonsense, then it's almost guaranteed that something will break.
Thankfully, Coach doesn't give any particular fucks about Ilya's request to step out.
"Do not get lost," is all that he tells Ilya. Considering this awful city, it is laughable. But Russians do not laugh at their coaches, so Ilya silently nods and goes to the parking lot to smoke.
This is where he finds Hollander, squatting against the side of the building with his face buried in his knees.
Ilya freezes, about to make his way back inside, but his boots crunch on the snow. Hollander's head flies up. "Oh. Hi." His voice sounds tired but his eyes are mercifully dry. Which is good. Ilya doesn't know what he would've done if Hollander's freckled cheeks had been stained with tears. He'd probably run for the fucking hills.
Instead, he gruffs out his own curt greeting, ignoring Hollander's curious look as Ilya puts his back to the building and lights his cigarette.
"You're not supposed to smoke here either," Hollander says.
Ilya blows smoke towards the sky. It's startlingly blue, not a cloud in sight. "Where in this city can I smoke?"
Hollander's jacket rustles as he shrugs. "I dunno. Well, there's a park across the street, but my mom says it's full of drug addicts."
All the reports about Hollander say that he's not very social. That he keeps to himself. Ilya wonders if he's been reading about the wrong Hollander. In the two instances that they've interacted so far, all Hollander has shown is that he can't shut up.
Idly, Ilya jokes, "You think they would share?"
Hollander's head whips to him at an alarming speed. "What?" he snaps. There's a fascinating panic in his eyes. "You would– Rozanov, you can't do that."
The cigarette in his mouth suddenly tastes stale. There's something sweeter than nicotine that's flooding his tongue. "Why not?" He goes for an off-handed tone, something subtle in its goading. Shane rises to his feet, face flushed from more than just the cold. "Should do as locals do, yeah?"
"The locals aren't doing drugs," Hollander hisses.
Ilya tilts his head, intrigued. "You said park is full of drug addicts."
"That's not– that doesn't apply to everyone in the city!" Hollander almost stomps his feet as he says it. He's agitated, riled up in a way that he's never been while on the ice, not in any of the clips that Ilya has seen. Even during Team Canada's free skate, when Hollander was having trouble synching with his forwards, Ilya could only see a steady focus in Hollander's eyes. This childish almost petulance, none of that was there before.
He chases it. "Is not very good city," he jeers. "Very boring. Nothing to do. I would do drugs too, if I was here."
"Well I'm sorry that a small town in Saskatchewan is underwhelming."
Ilya pauses at that. He's genuine when he asks, "Thought Regina was capital of…" he wets his lips, speaking slowly as he sounds out, "Saskatchewan."
Hollander's jaw works. He blinks quickly as he looks away. He seems… embarrassed. "It is the capital," he mutters after a moment. "It's just… small compared to other capitals."
"You are not from here," Ilya notes. He can't remember where Hollander is from, but he knows that it's somewhere east. "Why are you so…"
Not angry, not mean. Ilya can't find the right word for it, so he makes claw-like hands by his face, screwing it up into something scary. "Grr," he says.
Hollander blinks. Ilya doesn't know if he's ever met anyone else with such expressive blinks. "It's not my city, but it's a Canadian city," he explains. There's less heat in his voice than before, but he's still bristling, still watching Ilya with a guarded look. There's a beat, and then Hollander says, "Commies like you aren't allowed to make fun of it."
His words have the cadence of a joke. Somehow, that is far more endearing than the actual words that Hollander said. Ilya snorts, grinning around the next drag of his cigarette. He watches something loosen in Hollander's face at the sound, only to tighten back up again when Ilya asks, "What can Canadian make fun of then?"
"That's…" Hollander weakly protests. He kicks at the ground a little, nose pink from the cold. It's quite fucking cold out here, even with the hotel protecting them from the biting wind. Despite his numb fingers, Ilya doesn't want to go back inside.
He waits with baited breath as Hollander looks around, eager to hear what this strange boy could possibly say about a city as unremarkable as Regina, Saskatchewan. He doesn't get to find out. Hollander's eyes blow wide and he curses, yanking his hand out of his pocket to smack the cigarette out of Ilya's mouth.
"What the fu–" Ilya starts to curse, but Hollander grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around, hissing, "Shut up."
Ilya would fight the hold, if not for the press badges around the necks of the people approaching them. A woman and a man, both of whom Ilya vaguely recognizes from Brandt Centre, people who pulled aside his Coach for a pre-tournament interview.
"Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov!" The woman brightly greets. "Well, this is unexpected!"
Hollander laughs weakly. His hand is still on Ilya's shoulder, and his grip is almost painful. Despite having less English, Ilya is the one to find words first. "Hello," he returns. "You are reporters, yes?"
"Yes, we're with the Regina Leaderpost." They give their names and their hands. Ilya takes the latter and promptly forgets the former. "We just finished talking with your coach, Hollander. He said that you weren't available for an interview, but–"
Ilya feels Hollander's whole body go stiff next to him. Ilya blurts, "Yes, we had plans."
Why would you say that? He asks himself. He feels about as baffled as the reporters look. Why the fuck would you say that?
"You're friends?" The man asks, eyebrow cocked.
Ilya decides to shrug. "Maybe."
That seems to remind Hollander that he has a voice. "W-We just met yesterday. He, uh, he's amazing to watch."
"He is my fan." Ilya jokes. Again, it's almost entirely against his will. He stops trying to make sense of it, of his wayward tongue, and just follows his instincts. "Hollander said, oh Mister Rozanov sir, you are best at hockey, I will tell you all of our plans–"
"No the fuck I didn't!" Hollander scoffs, shaking Ilya by the arm. Then he flinches, stammering, "Uh, I mean–"
But the reporters are laughing loudly. "It's always great to see camaraderie like this," the woman reassures them. "If you wouldn't mind, could we include this in a piece about the next generation of hockey talent? Don't worry Mister Hollander, we won't quote you directly."
Something twists in Ilya's chest. The odds of his father finding a short anecdote in a local Canadian newspaper are slim to none. Honestly, he's not sure he even cares about what his father has to say to Ilya fraternizing with a Canadian player. It's an easy enough criticism to dismiss. It'll be the way he says it that kills him.
Ilya doesn't get the chance to decline. "Sure," Hollander suddenly says, a strange boldness in his voice. "Just, uh, please also say that as much as I enjoy watching Rozanov, I'll enjoy beating him even more."
Hollander's lips are ever so slightly crooked with a grin. The next breath that Ilya takes is shockingly cold and crisp. "Will you?" he taunts, grinning back when Hollander shakes him again.
It's only when the reporters are gone that Hollander seems to realise that he's still holding onto Ilya. "Oh, shit, I–" his hand flies off of Ilya's shoulder. The layers that they're wearing would prevent the transfer of heat, but Ilya still finds the spot colder than it was before. "God. Sorry that I dragged you into that."
The last expression that Ilya expects to see on Hollander's face is one of abject misery. "Say sorry for cigarette instead," he tries joking. Hollander huffs a laugh, but his eyes are still troubled. "Why this face? That was good, yeah?"
"It was," Hollander mumbles. He kicks at the ground again. "I just– my coach didn't want me talking to the press."
Ilya tilts his head. "Why?"
Hollander bites his lip and blinks twice, looking to the side. His voice is rough when he explains, "I give off a bad impression, apparently." He almost spits the words out. "I'm… awkward. Canada's hosting, so Team Canada should be friendly."
His shoulders are almost bunched up to his ears. It feels wrong to see Hollander looking like this, miserable and small and genuinely lost. He knows where he is, but not how he got there.
Ilya would explain it to him if he understood it himself—Team Canada chose Hollander to be the captain. Even if they didn't put him in such a front-facing role, he's the most promising player on the host country's roster. Why wouldn't they just give him a script to follow instead of acting like he doesn't exist?
These aren't questions that Ilya can ask, or even ponder allowed. Not when Hollander's brown eyes are as pained as they are. Ilya is an asshole, but he is not cruel. His fingers flex where they're stuffed into his pockets. He wants to reach out and do… something. Something stupid, probably.
Instead, he says, "They have done bad job being friendly." He waits for Hollander to look at him in confusion, only then explaining, "City full of drug addicts is opposite of friendly."
Hollander stares for a moment longer, and then he snorts, shaking his head. "You really are a dick," he sighs, equal parts weary and fond, a sound that warms Ilya all the way through.
The door creaks open. "Shane? Are you still– oh!"
Ilya looks up and sees a rather elegant looking woman staring at the two of them. He knows that this is Hollander's mother because he had seen the two of them watching him from the stands, and also because her face is the only explanation for the softness of Hollander's features.
"Hey mom," Hollander greets stiffly. "This is, uh, Rozanov. Ilya."
"I know," she mumbles, her stare piercing.
Ilya shuffles as he is thoroughly assessed. "Hello," he tries, nodding at her. He suddenly becomes aware of the way that his and Hollander's jacket sleeves are brushing. He wonders if she can smell the nicotine on his clothes.
Hollander coughs. "Rozanov and I were just–" he pauses and then grimaces. "Well, we were talking, and then some people from a local paper saw us and I told them we were hanging out, and they're including it in some kind of article."
Hollander's mom raises her eyebrows. "Hanging out?"
"We're not," Hollander rushes to clarify. Ilya frowns at him. "Well. We were, but not on purpose. Just– Coach said I should make myself scarce when the media came and Rozanov happened to be here–"
Ilya watches the way that Hollander's words settle on his mother's face. The way it pinches and pulls with some mix of anger, pain, and worry. He cannot imagine that it feels great for a mother to hear that her son is being treated this way, even with his skill and the responsibility that he's been given. Something about that expression makes his throat a little tight.
Her voice is clipped when she asks, "Well, it should be alright. What did you say?"
Hollander hesitates. Ilya points at him and declares, "He said fuck."
"Dude!" Hollander hisses. His mother blinks at Ilya.
"In front of reporter. Fuck was said."
Ilya isn't sure the exact reaction he's hoping for from Hollander's mother. Regardless, he doesn't expect a loud bark of laughter that she barely stifles into her glove. "Did he really?" she asks.
"Mom."
"I am not liar, Mrs. Hollander," Ilya says solemnly.
Her eyes are much warmer as she steps forward, extending a hand. "Call me Yuna." Ilya takes it and is given a firm shake.
"Yuna," Ilya corrects. And then, because he's not sure if Hollander will explode next to him, he does reluctantly clarify, "They promised to not mention swearing."
Her eyes smile at him before turning to Shane. "Well there's nothing to worry about, honey." Yuna ruffles his hair, the warmth in her eyes at complete odds with the acid in her voice as she mutters, "If Team Canada gets mad at it, well, I'll ask them what they expected kicking their captain out of the hotel in the middle of winter–"
Hollander groans, shoving her hand away. Ilya tucks his face into the collar of his jacket to hide his smile. "Should be okay to go inside now, no?" he asks them. "Media is gone."
"That's why I came out here." Yuna pats Hollander's pink cheek fondly. Ilya flinches when that fondness is turned on him. "You should come inside too, Rozanov. It's freezing."
It is, and Ilya should. But Ilya's bones still feel too brittle for his coach, his team, or his father's phone calls. The wind still hasn't numbed him all the way through. He's not sure how to say it in a way that Yuna would understand. If she could even begin to understand Ilya's aversion to a team that accepts him when Hollander's team won't even let him be their face.
"I–" Ilya starts, and then stops. He doesn't want to say anything else. He doesn't want to give himself away.
Hollander blurts, "Mom, can we take the rental and go for a drive?" He's standing strangely straight. "We, as in, me and Rozanov."
Why would you say that? Ilya silently asks. He wonders if Hollander is as surprised by his request as Ilya is. Why the fuck would you say that?
"For what?" Yuna asks, flabbergasted.
Hollander doesn't miss a beat. "Rozanov keeps calling this city a shithole, and I'm the captain of Team Canada."
They are two entirely separate thoughts. Ilya doesn't know what to make of it. He might have even thought that he was dreaming, if it weren't for the stinging cold against his face.
Yuna squints at him. "Your name isn't on the rental."
Hollander shuffles, mumbling, "I know…"
"I don't think your name is even legally allowed on a rental."
"Okay, well, I didn't know that–" Hollander huffs and shakes his head. There's something sharp in his eyes. "But I promise to be careful with it. I'm a good driver."
Yuna's expression is downright wondrous. "You still want to–" she breathes, and then clears her throat. "Well. Alright then. But be careful."
She sounds oddly gruff. Hollander looks oddly thrilled. "What is happening?" Ilya asks, looking between them.
He might have had more questions if Hollander had not turned his small grin on Ilya with his brown eyes and rosy freckled cheeks. "You said that there's nothing to do in Regina, so I'm proving you wrong. Unless you want to go to the park and do drugs."
Ilya had been hoping for some kind of surprise from the awkward boy he met yesterday. Something fun to push up against on the ice. Some kind of trick that would make the game worth playing. Never in a million years did he expect this—the fire in Hollander's eyes, the excited taunting in Hollander's voice, the everything that Shane Hollander is shaping up to be.
"Okay," Ilya says. It comes out faint with shock. Ilya has to wet his lips and try again. "Okay. Show me that there is more to this city than empty casino and drug park."
Hollander's grin stretches wide enough to show the points of his canine teeth. Ilya's fingers flex in his pockets again.
//
One hour later and Hollander is not grinning any more. Ilya, however, cannot stop laughing.
"You are right, Hollander," he teases, delighting in the way that Hollander's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "This is very interesting city."
"Shut up," Hollander grits back.
"Whole city, only for fields and parking lots! No hills. No trees. Just flat." Ilya pats Hollander's arm. "Russia does not have this. I am very grateful for you showing me."
"Man, fuck you," Shane retorts, but he's also laughing. He's smooth but diligent with his shoulder check as he pulls into yet another parking lot. This one is for a strange strip mall of sorts, two restaurants, a discount store, a sporting store, and a massive building with red letters that say 'Chapters.'
Hollander follows his eyes. "It's a book store. We could go in if you want?" he offers, almost sounding hopeful.
"Is it Regina thing?" Ilya asks. "Something to do only in Regina, something that makes Regina fun?"
"...yes." Hollander says it so seriously. Ilya snorts, and Hollander sighs, slumping in defeat. "Man, I really tried, okay?"
"You did," Ilya agrees. "Is very confusing."
They're in a nice warm car, but Hollander's cheeks go pink like he's stepped out in the cold. "I didn't want you to think badly of Canada," he mumbles, turning his face away from Ilya to look out the window. He huffs, frustrated. "I don't even know why they picked the most boring province to hold the tournament this year."
Ilya sits up, delighted. "Boring?" he asks, leaning closer in his excitement. "Not just city, but whole province?"
"Yes!" Hollander cries, throwing his hands up in the air. Ilya starts losing his shit. "Saskatchewan has fucking nothing except wheat! They could've hosted this literally anywhere else—Vancouver, Ottawa, fucking Red Deer—and it would've been better than Regina, Saskatchewan!"
He sounds absolutely incensed. Ilya can't catch his breath. "What do people do here?" he wheezes. He wants Hollander to keep rambling for as long as possible.
"Try not to kill themselves, probably," Hollander grumbles, and then winces. "Okay, that was a little bit much."
"No, no, I agree." Ilya straightens, wiping an eye. Hollander looks at him sideways, a smile playing at his mouth. "Such empty, boring city. Nowhere to party. Would make one crazy."
Hollander tilts his head, humming as if in correction. “Well, one of my teammates actually plays for the Pats,” Hollander says, like Ilya is supposed to know what a Pat is. “He says on the weekends, they throw bush parties.”
Ilya blinks. Repeats, “Bush party,” in a flat tone.
Hollander shrugs. “Don’t know why they call it that, because the parties are always in fields.”
“Regina children get drunk in fields?”
“Get drunk, light stuff on fire, scare whatever horses are around,” Hollander lists off. His mouth goes crooked at whatever expression Ilya is wearing. “I’m not saying that I do this. This is just what I’ve heard.”
Ilya shakes his head, disbelieving. “Poor Regina children. Wandering out to fields to drink and have good time. No clubs to stay warm in. Even Russia has clubs for children.”
Hollander snorts. “They obviously don’t do it in the winter, dude.”
“Still,” Ilya says gravely. “This is national tragedy. Someone should do something.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Hollander keeps laughing, his gloved hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel.
Ilya reminds him, "You said they should kill themselves."
Hollander flushes, snapping, "That's not what I said!"
Ilya just grins at him. There are so many questions brewing under his tongue. He wants to know where Hollander is from, what makes his home so much more interesting than Regina. He wants to know if Hollander likes to party, if Hollander is a good dancer like Ilya is. He wants to know who taught Hollander to drive and why he's so meticulous about his shoulder checks, if he struggled to pass his driving test.
They both jump when Hollander's phone rattles in the cup holder. Hollander checks it, and then sighs. "Mom says that we should be back before it gets dark."
Reality comes crashing back in, as cold as a winter's chill. It should not be so jarring to remember why Ilya is in Regina, Saskatchewan in the first place. It should not feel like a slap to the face to remember that he has games to play, medals to win, and a country to represent. But the truth of it freezes him all the way through.
"Right," Ilya mumbles, not quite able to hide the disappointment from his voice. "We should."
At the very least, he's able to take comfort in Hollander's look of sad understanding. In the achingly earnest way that Hollander says, "This was… nice?"
It sounds oddly like a suggestion. Ilya smiles at the inflection. "It was," he agrees. "You win. Prove me wrong. Regina has something fun to do."
Hollander's face flushes. "Well, that's not Regina," he mumbles, putting the car into reverse. "That's me."
I know, Ilya wants to say back. He doesn't. He wets his lips and says instead, "Do you know why this city is pronounced like vagina?"
"Okay, well that's–"
They start bickering again as Hollander exits onto something called the Ring Road. Ilya is about to ask about that too, but then they're moving around Chapters to reveal the open sky, and they both fall into stunned silence.
The setting sun has seared a streak of orange into the horizon, a fire that bleeds up into vibrant pinks and dusky purples. They catch the open undersides of the fluffy clouds and cast blue shadows into the sides, as if the streaks of colour are holding the night at bay. The entire sky seems to be glowing with these impossibly bright hues that extend as far as the eye can see.
There are no hills or trees to obscure the horizon. It's just the snowy fields, the bleeding sky, and Hollander and Ilya sharing breathless silence in the car.
"Wow…" Hollander whispers. He laughs, a breathless sound. "I've never seen a sunset like this."
Ilya doesn't know when he stopped looking at the horizon. When he instead became transfixed by Hollander's freckles in the light of the setting sun. When he became aware that the orange light made Hollander's eyes glow like chunks of molten lava. When he learned what Hollander looks like against the lavender twilight that's begun to creep in.
Hollander glances away from the road to smile at Ilya, wondrous and amazed. "Isn't this crazy, Rozanov?"
Ilya's jaw works uselessly. "It is," he manages. He's just barely able to catch the way that Hollander's eyes widen, ever so slightly, before Hollander's head snaps back to look at the road. Ilya copies him, looking forwards, and not daring to look anywhere else.
After a moment, Ilya manages to say, "Is not so terrible. Regina, that is."
He hears Hollander huff out a laugh. "No, it is."
Ilya smiles. "Maybe terrible. But very beautiful."
Hollander's breath hitches. The sky stretches out before them, impossibly infinite.