Chapter Text
You were practically made for this. This feeling of excitement, of control. So it’s no wonder you, a die hard hockey fan for the Raiders, were hired to be their assistant manager extraordinaire.
You finally felt like it was your big break, something that could get you on track to the corporate ladder, possibly even becoming a shareholder in one of the most competitive teams in the league. That was, of course, the case, until you found out what your job actually was.
Babysitting.
Not just anyone.
Ilya Rozanov. The illustrious, monstrous, and extremely slippery young man who just discovered the true meaning of free will.
His first year, even before placing a skate on home ice, was horrifically bad in all ways, but mostly publicity reasons. But you’ll be damned if he wasn’t great at hockey. Perhaps even the best.
Or, how you and Ilya navigate through your relationship over his time working with the Boston Raiders, and whether the mysterious man is actually more than he seems.
June, 2009: Boston
You remember the night that Ilya was drafted to the Raiders. You had just finished putting away laundry and turned the TV on to watch the draft, smiling inward as you realize that 1. Your favorite team just got the number one prospect in all of hockey, and 2. The number 2 draft went straight to the rival team. Good hockey was coming up.
You had moved from the suburbs of Massachusetts to live in the city, the place bringing something out of you that seemed to have been hidden most of your life. Despite your parents wanting you to go to a four year university, you opted for the easier option: online school. Getting your associates degree in communications and sports broadcasting.
You show up to your interview at the Raiders HQ, nervous, sure, but confident that you knew all you needed to to get the job and excel. And, of course, you did.
There was no doubt you got the role, you stuck out as the only contender as far as the recruiters thought: born and raised townie, and lifelong hockey fan who knew more than just the hot players’ numbers and heights, you were a shoe-in. You expected your roles to consist of scheduling, marketing, maybe even helping players with gear, and maybe it would have been… until Ilya Rozanov, the young Russian player, started making… comments.
It started innocently. Stuff that could be passed off as friendly competition, or maybe even make it seem like it was just his gruff Russian charm. Or something like that.
After a while, he seemed to disappear off the face of the Earth, which didn’t seem hard, especially if he went to Russia for long periods at a time. But he kept popping up. Hardcore NHL fans in Russia would photograph him at Russian nightclubs, raves, showing him basically climbing over women, sucking on their necks in ways that even the pros of the publicity managers couldn’t twist it.
That’s when the ones in charge decided that since they couldn’t change Ilya’s behavior, they would monitor it. And since none of them could spare the time or the energy to watch him, they sic you, the new hire, the same age as him, a silent figure sitting in the dark, to watch him and make sure he doesn’t step too far out of reach.
January 2010, Ottawa
The first time you meet Ilya, it isn’t the greatest start.
You were in Ottawa due to the Raiders upcoming game against the Centaurs coming up, and it just so happened that the WJH Championships were that weekend before.
You get to the arena and watch the game with the other people on the management team, particularly focusing on Ilya, who, despite his team, was playing phenomenally. And although that was the truth, it was hard not to focus on the aura and intensity radiating from Shane Hollander.
Team Canada won.
As they exchange pleasantries, you walk back to concessions to get a refill of your soda, and catch a quiet- or not so quiet- string of what seems to be Russian profanity, though all you really know of Russia is something about the Cold War and space travel.
You sip on the ice cold drink and listen along, slightly entranced, wondering which Russian player was having a hissy fit. Footsteps echo in the hallway leading to the locker room and before you can awkwardly fast walk away, Ilya Rozanov comes veering around the corner, his face red. His eyes catch you as you stand there like a deer in headlights, nervous as hell, and way too incoherent to even make any noises except for the most embarrassing of squeaks. He stands there a moment, looking at your clothes. Shit. He sees the Boston merch and knows exactly why you’re there. He scowls, mutters something under his breath, locks his fiery eyes with you, and then walks back to the locker rooms.
What could have been seconds or days, you don’t know, but you’re deathly aware of the condensation from your soda cup when Frida, your manager, peeks into the main arena and calls you over to leave.
February 2010, Boston
Technically, now was your first time you are officially meeting Ilya. Except he doesn’t know that he’s already met you. Or the fact that his "personal assistant” is actually just a glorified babysitter meant to keep him out of trouble.
Due to him not knowing much English, it was the decision that as well as watching his behavior and doing damage control, you would also help Ilya book commercials, brand deals, and sponsorships because he had no idea what he was up against in the States. Of course you said yes because you’re very nice… and you got an extra 20 thousand dollars attached to your pay check, plus benefits, and a cut of the profits.
As you sit in the large boardroom, waiting for your meeting time, you get lost in the Boston skyline. You get so lost, in fact, that you totally miss when people enter. You jump when you hear your name and turn around to see Ilya walking into the room. A wave of recognition flashes his face, but he doesn’t mention anything, thank goodness. You would rather not have the memory of your unfortunate-looking surprised face as his recollection of you.
The meeting goes fine and ends without you saying another word. You walk out and grab your coat, locking eyes with Ilya once again. You decide you may as well avoid the inevitable and walk over to him. He wanted you to do that.
“Hello.” You say as you reach him, or maybe you accidentally say it too early, he looks at you strange.
He nods slightly acknowledging you, waiting for you to say more. You awkwardly stick out your hand and immediately regret it. It’s actually, no joke, shaking.
“People around here call me Ked-” you cringe at your overly Bostianian accent coming out.
He slowly sounds it out. “Kid.” He eyes you up and down. “You look large for child.” The “l” in “child” rolls off of his tongue like something sticky.
“Ah- well it’s a term of endearment I guess. I am the youngest in the office. Not a child though. Definitely not a child.” He looks like he wants to ask why they call you kid, but decides to switch the conversation.
“You are my assistant, yes?” His eyebrows quirk.
“Yes- oh- my bad I totally forgot. Yes, I’m your acting assistant provided courtesy of the Bears.” You give that horribly cheesy smile that you sometimes do. “Anyways-” You reach into your bag and pull out a card, written on it is your contact information: phone number, email, and full name. He reaches for it and reads your name out slowly. He looks back up at you.
“Kid is stupid nickname.”
“Well, feel free to call me anything you want-” He interrupts.
“Собака.” he says, his native Russian surprising you for a moment.
“Sobaka?” You repeat, in a not so elegant way.
He nods. “Da. You are cobaka.” He smirks as he looks you over and you feel a sort of heat travel up you. Have you really just hit it off with Ilya Rozanov? He gave you a nickname, that had to count for something. Sobaka it would be. You smile again and start to explain to him your role in his life, as a liaison for everything and any accommodations or resources he may need beyond his signing bonus and help with finding an apartment. You send him off with a farewell and smile to yourself as you head to the train station to go back home. You have made friends with Ilya Rozanov. And you had only known him for 2 hours!
...cut to you sitting in your studio apartment googling what the word “Собака” means.
What the hell…?
A fucking dog?!
Even your neighbors can hear you…
This is going to be harder than you thought it would be.