Chapter Text
Thwack.
Was the sound of a puck shooting clean across the ice, skidding away in a straight line from his stick.
Thump.
Was the sound of a body hitting the boards, a collision of speed and strain in an attempt to out run the puck.
Crash.
Was the sound of the stick hitting the ice, as Ilya launched his stick away from him, unsatisfied, and switched around to scream towards the other side of the rink.
Bang.
Was the sound of his shoulder hitting the wall, angled at the last second so the brunt of it didn’t fall onto his arm, which he now raised to scoop sweat-dark curls from his forehead. And then he turned to go again.
Early to practice, early to rise that day, the Russian strained against his skates to make better time. There was no one on the ice with him, most teammates wouldn’t arrive for another two hours or so, plenty of time for Ilya to shower, get in his car, go get a coffee, and come back pretending it was his first time at the rink that day, too.
He didn’t care so much if they knew he’d be here. In other hockey teams, the captain was probably the first there, usually. It just didn’t seem necessary to tell anyone. This was between him and the boards, between the ice and the skates. Even Shane didn’t know he was here, either still wrapped up in their bed, sound asleep, or making his disgusting smoothie for breakfast and wondering why, today of all days, his husband decided to go for a run.
Smack.
That one hurt a little more than necessary. He had been thinking of Shane, and that made him think of their bed, and that made him think of his dream. The one where his father was sitting in his old, wooden chair at the end of their dinner table. It was the long, empty one, in the room where he never opened the curtains. He was smoking, always, in these dreams, and saying something horrible. Usually to Ilya’s mother, who he sat opposite. Her eyes were on her food even though the plate was always empty. She was shivering.
Recently, in these dreams, Ilya launched himself across the table and beat the everloving shit out of his father. His cheeks bloodied and nose broke under avenging fists. Now Ilya had fought enough to know what that felt like. Taken enough hits to slug them right back. That had never happened before his death. Ilya thought maybe it would be easier to hit the ghost of his dad. Ilya thought now, brave, with the coffin in the floor, he’d hit his dad so hard his mother would never have to shiver again.
Bang.
He let his hands take the fall, and rocked against the board, hard. He didn’t even know how fast he was skating anymore. He knew he should stop. It was becoming more about the contact than the speed again. He hadn’t had the dream for nearly a year. It hurt more when it was unfamiliar.
He was flying back to the other end of the rink, again, when he glimpsed a figure standing in the stands watching him, right next to the plexiglass that protected them. He registered it at the same time he hit the board, for what he knew should be the last time. His shoulders were beginning to ache. He checked the clock. Only an hour until practice officially started. Ilya had lost track of time.
"Coach Wiebe!” Ilya said, collecting his stick from the floor, skating up to the man in question. He came to meet the captain at the hinged gate, leaning over it with eyebrows raised.
Wiebe shook his head. He did not look impressed. “Ilya Rozanov, training early. So early I thought someone had broken in.”
“You know me.” He said, winking. Damn, his shoulders really hurt. Now the movement was leaving him, in came the pain. He’d be okay in a day or two, he knew, just in time for their next game. “I am model player.”
Wiebe had a coffee mug in his hand, and he took a long sip rather than responding to that. Then he said, “what kind of training you call that?”
He gestured to the boards. There was more concern in his eyes than Ilya was comfortable with. “Beating the shit out of yourself?”
Ilya laughed. “Speed. A real player does not let himself be limited by rink. He plays… outside the box?”
Wiebe blew out a breath, a visible effort on his face as he tried to decide what to say. “Who taught you that one?”
“Bood. I used it right?”
“Yeah. You did.” Wiebe finally got out what he had been meaning. “Not sure you’re using yourself right, though. Your arms will hurt for training later.”
Ilya waved a hand. “No. I am getting fired up! Like these actors who want to be slapped before scenes.”
The coach looked at him. His gaze was piercing and too empathetic. He was looking at Ilya like he knew exactly what he meant, why he was here, and now he was going to push it. Then he would tell Hollander and the team and they would all know that Ilya Rozanov liked to sprint straight into walls to try and knock thoughts out his head. And they would all look at him like he would break against them.
Then Wiebe sighed and turned. “Well. They do say no one takes a hit like Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya grinned and hopped over the gate to join him. “Do I have time to go buy coffee?”
“We need to talk tactics for this season. Having Hollander in centre with you really changes things. I want you two too-”
And that was the four hours of Ilya’s life. After about the first, he didn’t even feel the pain as bad anymore. It faded into a soft buzz over his skin, like being cold, or like being alone. Barely noticeable until you looked at it. Ilya smiled when he collided with his teammates in practice tackles, feeling the buzz bite into his skin, making him bite his own teeth down instinctively in what must, to the other players, look a bit like a feral snarl.
He knew that because after Ilya easily maneuvered the puck around Haas, who was supposed to be blocking him, and shoved Bood off his left arm so hard the defenseman stumbled on the ice, scored, (even though it wasn’t part of the drill,) and circled back around, they were all watching him with identical exasperated expressions. The kind of look that said, damn, how’d I end up playing with the crazy?
“You’re an animal, Roz.” Said Dykstra.
“The rabid kind.” Agreed Chouniard.
The biting in his arms was fading back down. Ilya shrugged and joined the players waiting, next to Shane, his other end open. Young skated off to have his go.
“Ah, you all love it! Bite the heads off your enemies.”
“Did he make that phrase up?” Hayes said. “Sounds like he made that up.”
“It's his version of no mercy.” Hollander told them. “It’s stupid.”
Ilya rubbed his shoulder, unconsciously, and then stopped when he saw Wiebe watching. He shook himself and tapped into the conversation. He forced his face into a teasing smile.
“Really, Hollander?” He purred. His beautiful husband looked up at him, and swallowed. Always so easy. “You did not hate it when-”
Shane shoved him onto the ice. It was normal for them, and for a hockey player, a second home. But it hit his left arm funny when he went down and he stifled a yell. It came out almost a surprised growl, a half-bitted off bark. They were laughing at him, mostly, thinking it was a sign of being caught off guard and not a stab of pain.
Only Shane and Wiebe were not laughing.
“Shit. Sorry.” He said, offering a hand to Ilya. He knew it wasn’t surprise. Ilya did not yell like that for surprise. “Hit the floor wrong?”
He only replied when he was back on his feet, and the buzzing had reclaimed his arms. He thought they were almost going numb now.
“Yes.” Was all he replied.
“Sure?”
“Don’t worry about him, Hollander.” Said Chouinard. “Don’t you know what they say in the league? No one can take a hit like Ilya Rozanov.”
This time, Ilya laughed with them.