Work Text:
“ROZY! Get your ass back in here!” Bood calls over his shoulder. Ilya is outside sucking down a cigarette. Boyle raps his knuckles on the glass door and motions for him to come inside.
The Centaurs have the night off but the Voyageurs are playing the Guardians and Bood has invited the team over to watch. Ilya pulls the door open and shivers because he’s only wearing his Centaurs hoodie. There’s a red, blue, and white Hollander t-shirt underneath it, but his teammates don’t need to know that. Snow clings to the ends of his curls. He stomps slush off his boots on a coir mat.
He makes his way back to his seat next to Bood on the sofa, (there is an unspoken rule that the host and team captain don’t lose their prime spots anytime they get up, all other seats are free game.)
“Alright, I’m back - the bet still stands, who’s got first fight?” Ilya claps his hands.
“$1000 says Kent gets bricked in the second half of the period,” Dysktra calls out.
“I’ll drink to that,” Troy raises a bottle of cider and takes a long pull.
“Ok, ok, anybody else?” Ilya pulls a wad of cash from his pocket and peels off some bills, adding them to the pile on the coffee table in front of him
“You think he won’t, Rozy?” Bood asks.
“No, I say his ass goes down in the first half of the period,” Ilya replies with a wink. His teammates laugh and he hears bottles clinking together.
“And there’s Hollander with the puck, on a straightaway - they don’t see him, they can’t catch him -” the announcer says. Ilya clenches a fist.
That’s it, that’s it… he thinks. He checks his watch, it’s a Rolex he borrowed from Shane before his road trip began.
“And - OH! Kent takes Hollander out with a brutal check…”
Ilya snaps his eyes back to the screen. It's not like the time Marleau hit him, Shane's still on his feet, so he lets himself exhale. His jaw drops open when he sees Shane throw his stick, gloves, and helmet to the ice.
Shit. Ilya knows Shane can hold his own in a fight, but Dallas Kent isn’t exactly known for fighting fair.
“Hollander and Kent are getting into a bit of a shouting match there -” the announcer says.
Shane and Kent are chest to chest, shouting, Shane is motioning "c'mon, c'mon" with both hands, inviting Kent to take his shot. The camera zooms in on Shane’s face. He’s not mic’d for the game but it’s pretty easy to read his lips:
“Fuck you! Say it again, I fucking dare you…Say that shit again…”
“Hell yeah! Get him, Hollywood!” Chouinard says.
Kent’s gloves are also off. He rears a fist and swings at Shane, who leans back far enough that it misses him entirely. Shane grabs the front of Kent’s jersey and delivers a solid punch to his jaw.
“Oh SHIT,” Haas jumps up to his knees, he’s been sitting on the floor, close to the TV.
Ilya reflexively grabs Bood’s sleeve as Shane and Kent trade blows. They’ve both got hold of each other’s jerseys and they’re letting their fists fly. Shane swings and it connects hard enough that Kent loses his center of balance and he lands flat on his back. Not missing a beat, Shane charges forward and straddles his opponent. The entire Centaurs roster is on their feet, cheering Kent’s beat down. Shane’s fists continue to make contact as effort is made to separate them. Kent is clearly out of it, but they get him to his feet. Shane is still shouting like a rabid dog as he’s pulled backward.
“That is a very unusual sight here as the Montreal team captain is escorted to the penalty box. Hollander is not happy, let’s look at the replay…”
They watch the fight a second time, with a second camera angle, then a third. Someone in the editing room has added music to underscore Shane’s first two punches.
Here comes the BOOM, and here comes the BOOM…
Ilya’s heart is racing at the sight of it. After a slo-mo replay of the fight, they see a close up of Shane’s face, red with both rage and blood from a nasty cut above his left eyebrow. Ilya’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he doesn’t need to guess who’s calling him. He squeezes through his still celebrating teammates to take the call outside.
“And Rozy wins again,” Bood laughs. “Pay up, boys, pay up…”
“Aw, fuck buddy, what a stellar tilly! Holly rang Kent’s fuckin’ bell, eh?” Boyle laughs and clinks his beer bottle against Troy’s cider.
“Yuna?” Ilya answers, closing the glass door behind him. His cheeks are burning hot but a chill shoots up his spine from a gust of wind.
“He’s ok. Team doc is checking him out,” Shane’s mom sounds, as his Boston teammates would say, wicked pissed.
“What happened?”
“I honestly don’t know. His eyebrow doesn’t look good.”
“Let me know when you hear more. Please.” Ilya’s stomach clenches. He looks at Shane's watch again. If he starts driving right then, with the way snow is falling, he might make it to Toronto a bit after midnight.
“Of course. I wanted you to know Dad and I are here, ok? He’s not alone.”
Ilya couldn’t love Yuna Hollander any more than he does in that moment. “Thank you. Thank you for calling.”
He hangs up and presses a cold hand to his hot cheeks and forehead. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says to himself. Troy is at the door waiting for him when he goes back inside. He gives Ilya a knowing look, full of concern.
“Yuna, erm - Hollander’s mother,” Ilya gestures to his phone. “The doctor is checking the cut on his eye.”
“Ilya, they just took him out of the game. I think he’s heading to the hospital.”
“Fucking what?!” He charges back to the TV in time to see footage of Shane being taken out on a stretcher. Someone clever looped in the Eminem song “Say Goodbye to Hollywood.”
“Sayin’ goodbye, sayin’ goodbye to Hollywood, Sayin’ goodbye, sayin’ goodbye to Hollywood…”
For the rest of the game, Ilya takes up a perch by the sliding door so he can pick up the phone as soon as it rings but the only thing that comes through is a text.
David: 12 stitches. Orbital socket isn’t fractured, no concussion. His knuckles look like hell but nothing's broken. Said he’ll call you when they release him. Phone hearing tomorrow.
Ilya: Thank you
He chews on his bottom lip for a second and adds:
Ilya: Tell Shane we’ll take care of it.
David: ?
Ilya: He’ll know
David: Please don’t do something stupid, Ilya. We can’t have both of you boys in trouble. Shane’s fine.
Ilya: ok
He tries to feel relief, but all he feels is ice cold rage. He returns to his teammates, who have resumed watching the game. They know he and Shane are friends and business partners so he figured no one would be surprised that he’d gotten an update so soon.
“I, erm - I heard from Hollander,” he announces. “Twelve stitches, nothing more.”
“Holly’s head is as hard as his fists, eh?” Boyle chimes in. That makes Ilya grin because Boyle has no way of knowing how right he is about that.
“Listen up boys,” Ilya calls to his teammates in his most authoritarian Team Captain voice. “Anybody who takes Kent down next time we play Montreal gets $5000 cash from me. I'm sick of this piece of shit.”
“Shit yeah, Rozy!” Bood shouts.
“I could use five grand!” Dykstra laughs.
“I’d do it for free,” Wyatt adds.
Troy takes a long sip of a fresh beer. He raises the bottle in agreement. Boyle nudges his arm.
“Rozy’s got a real hard-on for Kent, eh?” Troy thinks it’s a very interesting choice of words.
“Kent’s a disgrace. Ilya and Hollander are friends, ya know? They run a kids’ hockey camp in the summer.”
“Oh fuck yeah, bud, I get that - retribution. Fuck Kent, I got sisters. I believe the women.”
When the game is over, (a solid Voyageurs win) they break up into different groups to play video games, cards, or pool. Bood plays some 90’s alt rock from a very respectable sound system. Ilya turns his ringer on full blast and places it on the coffee table so he doesn’t miss a call. He’s regretting not jumping in his car as soon as Shane was taken out of the arena.
The snow gets worse and many of them have been drinking so the team watch party turns into a good old-fashioned sleepover. They pair up to share the two guest rooms and the rest of them find a sofa, chairs, any soft place to sleep. Bood’s wife Cassie brings out blankets and pillows to make sure everyone is as comfortable as possible.
“Just don’t expect breakfast in bed tomorrow morning, boys,” Bood laughs.
Ilya and Troy snag the guest room farthest from the living room.
“I could sleep on the floor, if you’d be more comfortable,” Troy offers. Ilya waves him off as he pulls his Centaurs hoodie over his head. Troy cocks his head at Ilya’s choice of t-shirt but Ilya is simply too distracted to offer an explanation. “I can’t say sharing a bed with you is something I thought I’d be checking off my lifetime Bingo card.” Ilya offers him a weak smile.
He worries his bottom lip. There’s an unspoken conversation hanging in the air between them. Troy previously hinted he suspected and Ilya wants to tell one person, just one. He swallows the truth down and it sighs heavily.
“I wouldn’t want Hollander to get the wrong idea if he finds out about this. Is he the jealous type?” Troy says with a wink.
Ilya smirks, it’s a friendly jab, practically innocent.. “Just don’t grab my ass and you’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want Harris to get mad at me, either.”
“S’not like Hollander to fight, is it? The hell do you think set him off? ”
“I have no idea.”
They climb into bed and Troy rolls to his side. Ilya sits with his back against the headboard. He knows he won’t be able to sleep until he hears from Shane. He doesn't have his phone charger and he doesn't want to drain the battery so he just sits there and stews. A bit before two AM, he gets a text.
Shane: U up?
Ilya doesn’t reply, he just places a FaceTime call. Shane answers on the first ring. His face looks ok at first glance, but when he turns to the side there’s a massive bandage over his eyebrow. It appears he’s laying in bed at the hotel, not in a hospital.
“Are you ok?”
Shane scoffs. “Yeah.”
Hearing Ilya on the phone, Troy wakes and rolls over in bed. “Is that Hollander? What the hell happened?”
“Kent said - wait, are you guys in bed? Like the same bed?” One side of his mouth curls upward, confused.
“Oh no, Barrett - we have been found out,” Ilya says, feigning shock.
Troy playfully throws an arm over Ilya’s stomach. “You had a good run, Hollander, but he’s mine now.” Ilya delivers a kiss right to the top of Troy’s head, strictly for Shane’s benefit.
Shane starts to laugh, he’s possibly too tired and drugged up to worry about what Troy knows or doesn’t know. He grabs his head and hisses in pain.
“We are snowed in at Bood’s. Whole team was watching your game. What did he say to you? Kent. What happened? You don’t fight like that.” Ilya’s demeanor becomes immediately serious.
“He called me a…” Shane closes his eyes, hesitating.
“A…” Troy coaxes. “I mean, I can guess, knowing what an absolute fucking dickhead he is.”
“He called me a - .” Shane recites the two worst words anyone could use to refer to a gay man of Asian descent. They feel awful in his mouth, like the words themselves were made of broken glass.
Troy goes quiet and shakes his head. He hates himself for ever being associated with his former best friend.
Ilya growls, really growls deep in his chest. He whips the blankets off of himself and gets out of bed, ranting in rapid Russian.
“Ya etogo mudaka svoimi rukami prikanchu. Eto moy muzh — ya ego nakhuy ub’yu.”
“Oh, shit. Hey - Ilya…hold on…” Troy gets out of the bed. He’s not sure of what to do, but it looks like he might have to single-handedly physically restrain a deeply angry Ilya Rozanov from doing something reckless.
“I’ll murder him,” Ilya says coldly, switching to English. “I’ll rip his fucking head off.”
“We’re playing them next week. He’s going to get what’s coming to him, that’s a promise, Hollander,” Troy says, eyeing the distance between Ilya and the door. He contemplates how quickly he could get there to block Ilya from leaving the room.
“It’s ok. I’m ok,” Shane reassures them. “Ilya - ow, fuck!”
Hearing Shane cry out, Ilya stops pacing and sits on the bed, feeling helpless. Troy stays on the alert until he hears the unmistakable sound of Ilya sniffling.
“I should be there. I’ll leave now, I can be there in a few hours.”
“Please don’t - I don’t want you getting in an accident.”
“I know how to drive in the fucking snow, Shane.”
“Please just stay where you are.. I’m going to sleep now, my parents are here, I’m fine, I swear.”
Ilya doesn’t like it but he nods, agreeing to stay put.
“Promise me.”
“Yes,” Ilya nods again. “I promise.”
It looks like Shane is having trouble staying awake. He yawns, moaning in pain again. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya runs a thumb under one eye. Troy misses him silently mouth: J’etaime.