Chapter Text
He’s tall.
Taller than Shane himself, and although Shane had never been bothered by his own height, it bothers him now. His mom looks at the newcomer as if he were a collector’s item, and the granola with Greek yogurt and organic honey at breakfast has never tasted so bitter.
Shane can’t quite understand why his parents signed up for the Billet Families program for hockey players in Ottawa. They could have put that energy and money toward another initiative, but instead they decided to open their home to strangers. Don’t they think about the safety of their house? Of their son?
—This is David Hollander, my husband —says Yuna, Shane’s mother.
The Russian smiles at his father and shakes his hand firmly.
Dad’s face is going to explode if he keeps smiling like that.
—It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ilya. We’re very honored…
Honored? Who does this guy think he is?
Shane rolls his eyes and turns up the volume on the episode of Cosmos he’s watching. He’s seen A Spacetime Odyssey dozens of times, but it still fascinates him.
—Sweetheart, would you like to come here? —Yuna says.
No, I don’t want to.
Shane pushes the immature thought out of his head, leaves his plate on the table, and stands up. He straightens his sweater and runs a hand through his hair.
—Ilya, this is Shane Hollander. Son, this is Ilya Rozanov, one of the most talented rookies in the history of Russian hockey.
Ilya extends his hand, looks straight at him, and something stops in Shane’s chest. Those hazel eyes do… something inside him. As if part of himself broke and came together at the same time. Shane swallows and thinks he can feel the Russian’s fingertips brushing the inside of his wrist.
—Nice to meet you —Ilya says with a slight smile. His accent is heavy, and each word is pronounced with almost surgical precision.
Shane swallows and nods. He doesn’t feel like talking right now.
—Would you like to show him the guest room, Shane?
Again, no, I don’t want to.
—Sure —Shane says, forcing a smile. Ilya winks at him, slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, and follows him down the hallway.
—It is a big house, yeah?
Shane shrugs. It’s always seemed normal to him; it’s just his house.
—It’s normal —he says. Ilya lets out a snorting laugh, a little rude, as if he were mocking him—. Do you have a problem?
—Ty ne osoznayesh' svoikh privilegiy, malysh.
Shane stops and turns around, because he’s pretty sure this idiot just insulted him, and he knows firsthand what a bully sounds like. Ilya bumps into him, throwing him slightly off balance, but immediately grabs his shoulders to keep him from falling. They’re close. Too close. Shane can smell Ilya’s soap and sweat, feel his heat invading his body.
—What did you just say to me? —Shane asks, frowning as he steps back and straightens his clothes. Ilya looks him straight in the eyes, and for a brief moment Shane feels those eyes on his mouth; unconsciously, he wets his lips. Ilya inhales through his nose, picks up the duffel he dropped just before catching him, and shakes his head. His brown curls bounce a little, and feeling ridiculous for noticing, Shane leads him to the guest room and opens the door without saying anything else.
Ilya walks in, turns in a circle, examining the space, lets out a whistle, and smiles so widely his eyes narrow.
—It is… very nice.
Shane notices that the “r” rolls a bit too much in his voice and finds it amusing. He nods without stepping inside and stays in the doorway like an idiot, waiting for something, he doesn’t know what.
—Thank you —Ilya says, leaves his duffel on the bed and then walks to the door, extends his right hand, and Shane shakes it, a shiver running through his body. He stays silent.
Ilya chuckles softly.
—Where is your room? —he asks. Shane frowns, feeling a current of electricity on his skin. He shakes his head—. Ne volnuytes', ya tuda doberus'.
Ilya closes the door, and Shane thinks he’ll never let a bully make him feel stupid again.
He’d had enough of that.
I need to learn Russian.