Chapter Text
The first time Shane ever met Ilya’s little sister was at the draft and it had been mostly an accident. The gala had been winding down— finally, after hours of Shane sticking close to his moms side so that she could talk for him because everything about this sort of thing set Shane on edge and left his skin feeling too tight even though he knew he had to get used too it; because he was 18 now and he’d been drafted into the MHL and he couldn’t stand awkwardly beside his mom at every function for the rest of his life like a scared little kid if he wanted to be taken seriously— and Shane had needed some air.
So he’d politely excused himself and wandered to the far side of the building under the guise of finding a bathroom. It had been just his luck that when he’d settled into a mostly hidden corner of the building far away from everyone else's prying eyes, Rozanov had appeared too. Or well, it was just his luck that Shane hadn’t noticed Rozanov before he’d settled, because it was pretty obvious that he had already been there for a while.
There had been a moment where Shane’s eyes had landed on him and his throat had gone tight in a way that he told himself was envy, because Rozanov had been deemed number one and that was where Shane had wanted to be and no other reason, before he’d even noticed her. It didn’t last long though, because she was honestly sort of hard to miss.
She looked like a doll, dressed up in a pale pink tweed dress with a big lace collar and a giant bow in her hair. She was tiny compared to Rozanov, only just reaching his waist, but that didn’t seem to stop her from climbing all over him as though he were a jungle gym, tugging on his hands in demand as she rattled off something Shane didn’t understand the words of but picked up the meaning for pretty easily. It wasn’t hard to see that she was trying to get him to watch her. “Ilyusha, posmotri na menja!”
When she was sure she had Rozanovs full, undivided attention she stepped back to give herself space, and then executed a clean, one-handed cartwheel like it was as easy as breathing. Considering she couldn’t have been much older than five if she even cleared that, it was pretty impressive. She landed with a little flourish, bowing when Rozanov gave her a jaunty applause, telling her something in Russian that made her grin widen.
It was sweet, in a way that made Shane’s stomach do something he didn’t care to examine. Rozanov looked just as happy to be watching the little girl pulling on his hand do cartwheels as he had been to win first pick of the draft. It wasn’t what Shane had pictured from Rozanov, considering how much everyone touted him as an asshole, but it didn’t surprise him exactly either. Something about the whole scene felt teeth-achingly right.
Then, seemingly at the same time, they had both noticed Shane watching them heads, tilting in his direction in unison. The girl was quick to plaster herself against Rozanovs legs, half hiding behind him as he settled a comforting arm over her shoulder and eyed Shane cautiously.
“Sorry.” Shane said, before he could really think about it. Inexplicably, he felt like he had intruded. “I was just getting some air.”
“Is ok.” Rozanov said, succinct as ever. He nudged the girl gently, who looked up at him with wide eyes. They both had green eyes, Shane noticed a bit stupidly, like the broken glass he’d sometimes find on the shores of the beach. “This is Vasilisa.”
Shane smiled, kneeling down so that he was at her level. When he was a kid, it always freaked him out a bit when strangers would try to talk to him, crowding him because they were bigger and taller than him even if they didn’t mean too. So he crouched, and offered his hand to her to shake like he would anyone else.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Shane Hollander.” He said politely, though he wasn’t sure if she knew what he was saying. Judging by the way she glanced to Rozanov, she probably didn’t. Rozanov didn’t seem to mind translating though, murmuring something to her in Russian. “That was a pretty cool cartwheel.”
It took a moment, but she stepped forward, leaving to safety of Rozanovs side to slot her hand in his and give it one firm shake. She smiled at him, and he noticed that she was missing one of her canines as she murmured a small, thick-accented. “Thank you. You play hockey good.”
Shane laughed. Of all the compliments he’d been showered in that day, he wasn’t sure why that one seemed to touch him the most. Maybe because she was the sort of young that made it near impossible for them to lie with any conviction. “Thanks.”
Vasilisa nodded once firmly before she stepped back into Rozanovs bubble, leaning on his legs and wrapping one arm firmly around his thigh. Rozanov dropped a hand on top of her hair, gently smoothing the honey blonde curls down as Shane stood up once more. They looked so similar it was almost eery. It was as though someone had shrunk Rozanov and stuck a curly blonde wig on him, looking at Vasilisa. They had the same slant to their noses and round to their eyes.
“She is my sister.” Rozanov said, his brow furrowed slightly as he watched Shane’s face closely. A lot of people had probably assumed otherwise, Shane realised. He’d probably been correcting people all afternoon. Shane realised with a small amount of embarrassment that he hadn’t considered the fact they might be related at all, let alone how until that exact moment. It was obvious of course, it just hadn’t been what Shane was thinking about.
“That must be nice.” He replied awkwardly. “I’m an only child.”
He cringed internally for a moment, because that was a stupid thing to say and the way Rozanovs mouth twitched upwards in amusement was proof enough of that. At the very least, he didn’t have to stew in his embarrassment for long before the same door Shane had exited from only moments before banged open.
A slender woman in a long, silky black dress with a stern scowl appeared, not much older than Shane and Rozanov. Whoever she was, she made both Rozanov and Vasilisa stand up straighter like they were soldiers being called to attention.
“Vasilisa, Chto ty zdes' delayesh'?” The woman demanded, stalking right past Shane to tug Vasilisa away from Rozanovs side. Shane watched as Rozanov clenched his jaw so tightly he could’ve sworn he heard his teeth grinding.
“Ne khvatay yeyo tak, ty prichinish' yey bol'” He said, voice low. The woman didn’t seem all that perturbed, her cold eyes meeting Rozanov’s as she raised a well-sculpted brow in challenge.
“Tvoy otets ishchet tebya, Ilya.” She returned. Shane didn’t know what she said, but it made Rozanovs face go tight, then carefully impassive. He turned to Shane for a moment, eyes meeting briefly in a way that made Shane’s spine jolt.
“See you around Hollander.” He said, before he brushed past the woman back into the gala. Vasilisa looked over her shoulder with a pout as she was tugged back inside behind him, giving Shane an almost commiserating look as she waved goodbye. Then, Shane was left alone to finally catch his breath.
In truth, Shane didn’t think that much about Vasilisa Rozanov after that. He didn’t have much of a reason too, even when his thing with Rozanov started. She came up once or twice in the years that followed in the form of chirps for the most part, Rozanov laughing at other players about how his baby sister skated faster than them and hit harder too. Once in sincerity, when Shane had been sitting in the stairwell up to his apartment building and Ilya had been tying his shoes, asking about his family coming to the Olympics.
“My father yes, maybe my brother, who knows.” He’d said, indifferent and tense before a small, rare smile had taken over his face. “Vasya said she would try to convince papa to bring her along.”
Shane never learnt if she’d made it to Sochi. He hadn’t gotten the chance to ask before Rozanov had cut him out for six months. Then Vegas happened, and their thing had begun again, and truthfully Rozanovs little sister was the furthest thing from Shane’s mind. He’d only spoken to her the one time five years ago, and for all his quips about his skating prodigy little sister, Rozanov kept any information about her close to his chest the way he did for the rest of his family.
The only thing Shane really knew about her is that if she called, Rozanov would answer no matter what it was he was in the middle of doing. Even if that happened to be Shane. He had a special ringtone for her and everything, so he always knew if it was her calling or someone else. It would have been the most irritating thing in the world the first time it happened if it wasn’t so damnably endearing. And if Rozanov hadn’t made up for the half-way finished blow job once he had gotten off the phone with her by making Shane cum hard enough he saw stars.
It was why when Rozanovs phone started buzzing incessantly on the nightstand, the screen lit up with a candid of a grinning little girl with whipped cream all over her face and a giant hot chocolate in front of her, ‘Mishka🐻🎀’ flashing across the top of the screen Shane didn’t think that hard about it when he picked it up.
He’d been catching his breath, sweat slick and still naked among the pillows and blankets of Rozanovs apartment. The shower was going in the bathroom, where Rozanov had slipped off to clean up after about ten minutes of just laying side by side with Shane once they had finished. It had been good. More than good, really. Shane still couldn’t really feel his legs, which was always fun. It was a combination of the game he’d played earlier— won, earlier— and being fucked into the couch, and then the mattress in quick succession.
He’d needed to start thinking about moving soon. About showering himself, and putting his clothes back on, and calling a cab so that he could get back to his hotel room at a reasonable time to get some sleep before the team set off for the airport in the morning. And he was thinking about it, in-between sleepy, sex-soft thoughts of staying the night spurred mostly by the fact that Shane was fucking tired and Rozanovs bed was fucking comfortable.
Then the phone had rung, and forced Shane to pull himself up from where he had been trying his level best to meld himself with Rozanovs mattress. If it were anyone else, Shane probably would have let it ring out. But he knew Rozanov, knew that he’d be pissed if he missed a call from his sister even if he was busy in the shower, so Shane swiped the phone from the nightstand and stumbled towards the bathroom with it in hand so he could pass it off.
Rozanov appeared to have just stepped out of the shower when Shane barrelled his way into the bathroom, towel sitting low on his waist while he used a second one to scrub at his still dripping curls. He blinked a bit in surprise at Shane’s sudden appearance before he grinned wolfishly. “What’s wrong Hollander? Need more—”
“It’s your sister.” Shane interrupted before he could finish whatever smart ass comment he was making, unceremoniously shoving Rozanovs phone towards him so he could see for himself. Rozanov frowned a bit, a crease forming in his brow that Shane kind of stupidly wanted to poke for no real reason, as he put the phone to his ear without any further questions.
“Vasya, chto proiskhodit? Chto ne tak?” He spoke lowly into the phone, tone gentle in a way that would be warming if it wasn’t met with the sounds of a frantic, crying little girl on the other side. Shane felt himself suddenly snap back to reality, his brain jostling out of the post-sex molasses it had been floating in at the sound. Rozanov suddenly went rigid, jaw ticking hard enough Shane could swear he could hear his teeth grinding.
Shane didn’t know what she was saying, but her voice rang out clearly even through the shitty phone speaker. It was clear she was scared, Ilya’s name rattling off her tongue pleadingly among rapid fire Russian. It sounded like there was someone else there too, yelling faintly in the background and banging on a door. Shane felt sick suddenly, his own mind running a mile minute. He didn’t know Vasilisa, not really, but that didn’t make it any easier to listen to her crying down the phone.
Shane followed Ilya back into the bedroom listlessly, anxious dread settling in his fingertips as he watched Rozanov pace the length of his room like a caged tiger, a hand fisted in his own hair as he tried to soothe his sister down the phone. Shane caught a few words. Alexei, papa, fuck.
“Ty odin? Gde Aleksey?” Ilya questioned, his voice strained. Whatever the answer was, it wasn’t one that seemed to console him. His shoulders were tense, a vein in his neck throbbing in a way Shane had only ever seen before during the brutal sort of games that tried to tear your spirit away from you with vigor. His teeth were grinding so violently Shane was sort of worried he might break one. And Shane was just stood there, watching like an idiot. “Vso khorosho, Mishka, vso budet khorosho. Ya pozvonyu Sveta. Ostavaytes' na meste. Ne dvigaytes'.”
Ilya put his phone on speaker, muttering reassurances to Vasilisa as he texted someone, his fingers punching at the letters harder than strictly necessary. Whoever was shouting in the background hadn’t seemed to calm down any, banging on the door angrily. A million thoughts ran through Shane’s mind, with no context except how panicked Vasilisa sounded and the thick fear that seemed to be choking Rozanov despite the fact he seemed to be doing his level best not to show it. Before his mind really caught up with him, Shane was fumbling for his own phone where he had set it neatly atop of his folded clothes. His fingers moved stiff and automatic, pulling up flight information from Boston to Moscow.
The pragmatic part of him, the part of him that was his mother through and through, whirred to life. Rozanov would need to tell his GM and coach that he was leaving, but he should have something in his contract about emergency leave, so he wouldn’t incur any penalties. He’d need his passport, at least a weeks worth of clothes, a charger for his phone. Everything else was non-essential, to be left behind in the case of emergencies. The Raiders would have make some vague PR statement about where he was to explain his absence. They’d go into as much detail as Rozanov allowed while keeping the fans happy, if they had a good media team.
Shane quietly shifted to stand in front of Rozanov, whose eyes flicked to him with the same sort of irritation usually reserved for opposing players on the ice before they widened just a bit in surprise, like he had forgotten that Shane was there at all. In other circumstances, Shane might be offended by that. Instead, he lifted his own phone screen to show Rozanov the booking information, head tilted in a silent question.
There was something indescribable about the way Rozanovs brow scrunched. It was almost confusion, but there was something else to it that Shane didn’t think he could name if he tried. After a moment of processing what Shane was actually showing him, he swallowed thickly and nodded, still murmuring reassurances down the phone to his sister. That was how they passed the next half hour. Ilya talking to his crying sister while Shane flitted around his apartment silently, packing a bag for him.
It should have been weird, digging through Rozanovs drawers for underwear and folding his shirts into the same suitcase Shane had grown to recognise. It would have been in any other circumstances but the sharp edge of domesticity was blunted by the fact the whole apartment was thick with sour panic. The yelling had stopped, or at least quieted eventually, but Vasilisa was still crying.
From what Shane had been able to puzzle out, she had been hurt somehow by whoever it was she was hiding from. He didn’t know how seriously, neither did Rozanov. They both heard the moment when the door opened, Rozanov’s shoulders tensing up to his ears before there was the sound of a woman on the other side of the phone talking to Vasilisa. Shane wandered into the kitchen for the rest of the conversation, focusing on practical things. It made his skin buzz less with worry that way. Gave Rozanov some privacy at the same time. He ordered Rozanov a car to take him to the airport, washed the dishes that were left in the sink so they wouldn’t grow disgusting while Rozanov was away. When Rozanov appeared again, it was with the duffel bag Shane had packed slung over his shoulders and dressed for a flight.
“Is she okay?” Shane asked, unable to help himself. He didn’t know if this was the sort of thing he got to ask, to poke at, but he needed to know. It would feel wrong to not at least ask. Rozanov swallowed thickly.
“She will be.” He said after a moment. “Her wrist is broken, we think. Sveta took her to the hospital.”
“Tell her I hope she feels better.” Shane said, not sure what else to say. He did hope she felt better. Rozanov nodded, eyes boaring into Shane in a way he didn’t get a chance to decipher before the other man had crossed the space between the doorway and the kitchen sink Shane was leaning against to press their mouths together. It was familiar, but different at the same time. Not heated, but slow and intense, like that time on the stairwell.
When Rozanov pulled away, he swallowed again. “Thank you. For ticket, and packing.”
“Any time.” Shane said. And then Rozanov was gone, heading for the car Shane had called for him and leaving Shane alone in the apartment.