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Wyatt could not believe he was getting to play with Ilya Rozanov. They’d been playing together a month now, and honestly, Wyatt still couldn’t believe it. Ilya Rozanov was basically a hockey god, and, more than that, he made the game fun. He was fucking hilarious.
Being on the Centaurs was… different, though, from playing for Toronto. On the one hand, they almost never won. So that sucked. On the other hand, they didn’t have Dallas Kent, which was awesome. There were a couple people in Toronto that Wyatt missed, Ryan Price included, but mostly he hadn’t really loved the team. Been loyal to them, sure. Wanted to do his best for them, sure. Loved them? Well.
One month in and he loved the Centaurs. It was a great group of guys. The locker room was all laughs, and, like. Nice laughs. There was no trace of people being actual assholes. Even Rozanov, who had a reputation, stayed very clearly on the side of just ribbing.
Unfortunately, despite the fun, the team absolutely did not click. None of it made any sense. Wyatt couldn’t figure out the missing piece, and clearly neither could anyone else.
Rozanov had really tried, yesterday. They’d had a home game against Vancouver, and Rozanov had given a little speech in the locker room. It was still weird, and literally no explanation that made sense had been discovered, but Rozanov had willingly left Boston for Ottawa, and now he was the captain of the worst team in the league. But he hadn’t blamed them, hadn’t made them feel bad about it. Just pointed out a few good things people were doing, stressed the importance of teamwork. All kind of standard, but coming from him, somehow inspiring? He was a leader you wanted to follow, wanted to make proud. Wyatt hadn’t quite figured out what it was, other than straight up charisma. If Wyatt wasn’t straight–and his sister-in-law had made him take all sorts of am I gay quizzes and Kinsey chart quizzes and who knew what else, which had all kind of disappointingly called him straight as fuck–he would’ve said he had a crush on Rozanov. There was just something about the guy.
They’d still lost.
Rozanov had made a goal, and so had Bood, but Wyatt had let in three fucking goals. He’d wanted to knock his head against the goalposts. His wife had tried to console him–to be fair, honey, your defensemen… suck–but it was still shitty. His whole job was to be the last defense, and he’d failed. Three goddamn times. It didn’t matter if he’d blocked thirty eight shots on goal, he had let in three.
He’d apologized to Rozanov after the game. Rozanov had just stared at him, hair sweaty, eyes almost glassy with exhaustion, and then said, “Sorry for what? We left you alone. Is not your fault.” Then he’d dropped his pants and went directly into the showers, leaving Wyatt with a half-finished apology and a view of Rozanov he actually hadn’t needed. Fuck, the guy was lucky everywhere.
Practice today, at least, was better. The Centaurs all liked each other, there was a sense of camaraderie rather than defeat, and they tried to cheer each other up after a brutal loss like that. They'd all gotten pretty good at it, after all, with a record like theirs.
Wyatt wasn't sure that Rozanov was used to it yet.
He'd been kind of quiet all morning, and that was not normally a statement anyone could make about him. He wasn't necessarily huge on speeches, yesterday notwithstanding, especially on non-game days, but he normally sidled up to people, cracked a joke, slipped in a weird one liner that nevertheless had people slapping him on the back. He knew how to work a room.
Not this morning. He had come in, smiled briefly when people greeted him, and then kept to himself. Wyatt wasn't sure anyone else had noticed the difference, but his whole job was to notice a difference. To note people’s habits. To predict people.
Ilya Rozanov was off, today. Not acting as predicted.
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Coach Wiebe had asked Wyatt to stay after practice, to go over a few things. He didn't need to stay in his gear, though, so Wyatt went to go shower and change. Wiebe wasn't in his office, and Harris wasn't sure where he was either, so Wyatt wandered back toward the rink.
Wiebe was there. He was on the boards, calling out to Rozanov as he did drills.
Rozanov was incredible.
Wyatt knew that. He had known that since 2008, since he'd watched the international juniors to root on Shane Hollander and watched him get crushed by the Russian team. And he'd known since Rozanov was signed to Boston, since Rozanov had broken records with a grin on his face, since Rozanov had bombed in the Olympics and then came back and shoved his team nearly single-handed into a Cup. And Wyatt knew he was a good goalie, but Rozanov had scored on him, normally with beautiful, ridiculous shots that never should have gone in, through heavy traffic or off a crazy fucking rebound. So he had seen Rozanov in action.
But watching him do drills, alone? He was a fucking terminator. He was borderline mechanically precise, every stroke of his blades a perfect arc. There was a shocking intensity to his eyes, a missile locked onto a target. Wyatt had never seen Rozanov like that. He'd seen him intense, sure, and it wasn't like Rozanov was ever just lax or goofing off in games, but this was another level. This was Rozanov at the top of his form.
Honestly, it made Wyatt feel kind of shitty. Sure, games were far messier than drills, but there still should have been some kind of opportunity for Wyatt to have seen this side of Rozanov, especially now that Wyatt was on the actual ice and with the guy every single day. Was the rest of the team really so bad that they were dragging Rozanov down like that? That he couldn't excel to the best of his abilities, because the rest of them weren't fast enough or positioned right or... or something? Even when Rozanov saved them from utter disaster with goals, it was messy and it was raw skill and it was something a little bit animal desperate. It wasn't this. It wasn't this gorgeous.
Rozanov whipped to a stop. Wiebe called out a time. Rozanov yanked off his helmet, said something irritable. Wyatt hesitated, then snuck out a little closer, trying not to be noticed. For once, he wished he was a smaller man.
"That was good," Wiebe said. "I don't–"
"No," Rozanov snapped. "I was sloppy. I was too slow. I–"
"Roz. I genuinely cannot see what you're seeing."
"Then you're not paying attention," Rozanov said harshly. Wyatt had never seen him like this either. "You need to put me through my paces. In Boston, this is what we did. Every time, every practice, had to be faster, better, more in sync. Mentally. You need to be pushing me. We need to push them."
"I'm not sure that's going to work on this team," Wiebe said seriously. "And I get that it feels like it worked on you–"
"It did," Rozanov said flatly. "It is how I have trained my entire life."
"Yeah. Except that you literally just did the most flawless drill in the history of the sport and you think I should be critiquing it. You did well, Rozanov. I am in fact allowed to say when people do well."
Rozanov took a deep breath. He still looked pissed, but he also looked like he was trying to swallow it. Wyatt wondered if he'd ever been complimented, flat out, by a coach before. He imagined he had, he was too good not to have it pointed out, but maybe it had only been in comparison to someone else? If Rozanov had always been used as a tool to point out others' deficiencies. It would maybe explain why he was pushing so hard here.
It didn't explain why he clearly thought he was still not good enough, though, considering the technical skill he'd just displayed. It didn't explain why he was pushing for Wiebe to be harsher on people, including him, while also not having this conversation in front of the team, not snapping at everyone, I can do this, why the fuck can’t you?
Maybe he just respected Wiebe's authority as coach too much? That seemed unlikely, considering Rozanov's blatant disrespect for many hockey officials. Maybe it was just ingrained in him, after Russia and Boston, not to fight with a coach in public. Maybe he liked Wiebe? Wyatt wasn't sure. It was hard, sometimes, to read Rozanov's actual feelings on people. Most of the time it was obvious–at least, Wyatt thought it was obvious, distinguishing between Roz chirping bullshit at people and having fun versus Rozanov fucking hating certain people. When he’d called Dallas Kent a goblin on the ice, he’d clearly meant the joke for Ryan Price, grinned at him, included him. That grin had changed when he turned back to Kent, though, more like a wild animal slowly baring its teeth before it viciously, happily eviscerated someone. Kent had looked a little bit terrified. Wyatt had been delighted.
Wiebe said something else, but this time it was pitched too low for Wyatt to hear. Rozanov's jaw worked, then he just shook his head and shoved his helmet back on. He took off around the rink, whipping past Wyatt. It was a sprinting speed, but he kept it up for several laps, far past when Wyatt would have quit. Jesus. Maybe he was onto something. Maybe Wyatt did need to be yelled at more.
Though. He wasn't sure it would help his confidence. Wyatt was hard to rattle, but being consistently told he wasn't good enough maybe wasn't something he would respond to. If, after those three fucking goals yesterday, Rozanov had looked at him and said you were sloppy, Wyatt maybe would have gone home and cried into Lisa’s lap and then choked at every game for the next week.
Rozanov switched into the center of the rink again, launching himself through complex shapes around the cones he'd set up. He switched, started weaving through them backward.
Wyatt didn’t realize he was staring until Wiebe was right there, and saying, “Hayes,” like it was not the first time he’d said it.
“Sorry,” Wyatt said. “Sorry, I just–you wanted to see me?”
“Yeah, we’ve got a couple of forms for you to fill out. Most of it’s done already, obviously, you’ve been here a month, but they’re just little things, sponsor shit with the building and whatever. Easy stuff.”
Wyatt gave a thumbs up and followed Wiebe to his office. Wiebe handed over a clipboard, and Wyatt filled them out slowly. There was no way that Wiebe just wanted this done. He could have had him fill these out at the beginning of practice. Wyatt had gotten there early that morning.
Shit. Was he about to get yelled at for yesterday’s game? Wyatt had apologized to Wiebe yesterday and Wiebe had said something about it being a team game, but–
For a second, Wyatt was too nervous about that to let it happen. Instead, he tried to divert. “There’s like, no reason for him to be here,” he blurted.
Wiebe looked up. “What?”
“Roz. Here. In Ottawa, and not still in Boston.”
“Ah.” Wiebe shrugged. “He wanted to be here.”
“Does he like a challenge?”
Wiebe snorted. “I hope so.” He waved that away, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Oh, god, here it came, the lecture about yesterday. “About liking a challenge. How are you doing?”
“Listen, about yesterday–”
“I’m not talking about yesterday,” Wiebe said. “Though that’s part of it–I don’t mean–listen. How are you settling in? I know Toronto was set up to do really well this season. I know coming… here… can be a challenge.”
“Gotcha,” Wyatt said. “Well. I’m liking it so far. Not so much the losing bit, but we can turn that around. I’m sure there’s a plan.”
“There’s a plan,” Wiebe said slowly. “Most of the team is on board with the plan. They’re all very excited to have you.”
Wyatt blushed a little. Then he said, “Most of the team.” He had literally just seen Rozanov arguing with Wiebe. Rozanov didn’t agree with the plan. Did Rozanov not want Wyatt there? Jesus, good thing he hadn’t noticed Wyatt fucking stalking his solo practice. “So some of the team–didn’t want me here? I mean, that’s fair, they must have been attached to–”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Everyone wants you here. I just meant the plan. It’s kind of… well, let’s say we’re still fine-tuning it. And some people are frustrated with it. Not you,” he repeated. “But the process.”
Right.
“But I did want to check in,” Wiebe said, kindly. “How’s your new place? How’s Lisa?”
So they chatted for a bit, and Wyatt relaxed. He really did like Wiebe. Maybe Wiebe really wasn’t pissed at him for the game yesterday. After a while, Wiebe, satisfied, set Wyatt free. Wyatt left with a spring in his step. He hoped he wouldn’t get traded again, which was not something a lot of people said after being sent to Ottawa. But he really did like this team, even if they weren’t quite. Well. Any good yet.
He’d left his bag in the locker room, though, so he took the long way around. He wanted to see if Rozanov was still on the ice.
He was.
Rozanov had stopped his fancy skating. The cones were everywhere on the ice, on their sides, and Wyatt could kind of picture Rozanov kicking them all down. Yesterday, he wouldn’t have had that thought at all. He would’ve assumed he knocked them each down with a puck or his stick, possibly laughing maniacally while he did.
Rozanov lined up a set of pucks. He circled them, once, slowly, then whaled one into the goal. He backed up, skated back in, slid, hit another one. Another goal. Sure, there was no goalie, but he wasn’t aiming for the center, he was–Wyatt was pretty sure, based on every angle he knew how to calculate, every position he clocked deep in him, where math didn’t matter but instinct did–aiming for just to the sides of the goalposts, just under the rim, impossible shots unless you had deadly accuracy. Wyatt wondered if he had taken it personally that Shane Hollander, his mortal enemy–well, not so much anymore, now they were ?friends? or something?–had beaten him at that All-Star game when they were rookies.
Rozanov made every single goal in his line of ten. He gathered up the pucks, set them up again. He, again, whaled every single one into the net–until the last one. The last one dinged a post and winged off to the side.
Rozanov stared at the goal. Then he hurled his stick to the side and yelled “BLYAT,” in a voice that nearly cracked. Wyatt’s eyes widened. They widened still more when Rozanov yanked his helmet off, threw it to the ground, and then, slowly, sank to kneel on the ice. He pressed his gloves to the ice like he was looking for an answer. Or like he was trying to brace against an enormous weight.
Wyatt was not supposed to be watching this.
He couldn’t look away.
Rozanov took a shaky breath. Wyatt had seen him simply shrug off missing what could have been a game-winning goal. This was something else. Or maybe this was what happened when he lost a game, and he just kept it from everybody. Maybe this was what happened when someone left a great team for the league’s worst, and realized exactly what they’d given up. Realized exactly how this season was going to go for them, even if they were a generational talent.
Wyatt wasn’t supposed to be watching this. But he had, which meant–was he supposed to pretend he hadn’t seen, or was he supposed to go out there, and ask Rozanov–Ilya fucking Rozanov–if he was okay.
But then Rozanov hauled in a breath, and got back up. He skated slowly toward the cones and started picking them up, almost gently, like he was sorry they were all scattered around.
Yeah, he was pretty sure that if Rozanov saw him here, Wyatt would be dead by morning.
He left.
He stayed in the locker room, though.
A few minutes later, Rozanov came through the door. “Hayes,” he said, doing a double take. He ran his fingers back through his sweaty hair, pulling it back from his face. “What are you doing here? Do you not have a wife to go make dinner for?”
Lisa was working late tonight. “It’s Tuesday, we’re ordering in pizza,” he said. He hesitated. Normally, Wyatt was pretty good with people. He was friendly. He didn’t hold grudges. He liked most people. Most people deserved more chances than they got. But Ilya Rozanov was not just anybody. He was… slippery. He was loud and obnoxious and funny and, if Wyatt had gathered the right evidence, kind. But he hid that kindness like it was something to be ashamed of, and Wyatt was pretty sure that he had more walls up than Batman. He just dressed them up, hid them in plain sight. He decided to approach this sideways. "And Coach wanted to talk to me about a few things. Team spirit, cohesion, all of that."
"Yes," Rozanov said slowly. "Wiebe is very into this." He started shedding his gear, slowly, his jaw twitching every time he used his left hand.
"You good?"
"What?"
"Your hand."
Rozanov looked down, like he'd forgotten he had limbs. "Oh. It's fine. Landed badly on my wrist yesterday. It doesn't matter."
Wyatt was pretty sure that did matter, but he assumed Rozanov knew his own body. Instead, he said, "Was there not a lot of team cohesion in Boston?"
"Oh, no, there was," Rozanov said. He stretched his arms, his neck. He looked tired. "But it was... different. You need to know each other well to know how to be better than everyone else. How to show off."
"Oh," Wyatt said. That was probably true. Sounded kind of lonely though.
Rozanov yawned. He was still wearing half of his gear, but he plopped onto the bench anyway, abandoning the process. "Wiebe is not wrong, to want cohesion," he said slowly, like he was debating how to say it, or maybe reaching for very specific words. "He wants to build an excellent team. Wants... longevity. He wants a team that trusts each other enough to be... innovative, to take risks. Boston–Boston is a good team. A great team. And we get there very quickly, because it is catch up or get traded. Competition. It’s... brutal is not quite the right term. Is nothing like my father, for example, or my first real coach." Rozanov didn't seem to catch that that was an insane thing to drop. "But still. Is a hard way to train. And–not everyone... does well, under that. Burns out some people."
Wyatt glanced over at him. He could imagine Rozanov thriving under pressure, knew that he routinely pulled out ridiculous trick shots under terrible conditions. Had watched him shoot off a puck a week ago, in fact, down 3-0, and grin at the crowd, do his little wide-armed spinning celly when it went in, basked in the hatred from the other team’s fans. He knew that Rozanov didn't back down for anything.
But he wondered if it was catching up to him. He wondered if that, in fact, was Rozanov burning. If there was a point when even Ilya Rozanov would buckle under the heat.
"Anyway," Rozanov continued, oblivious. "That is fast way. Great team, clockwork team, but... well, to make a clock, you need all the right pieces, yes? On a team like Boston, some people get... sanded down. To fit. It doesn’t give them a chance to grow. Or to realize they are better suited to a different line, or with different players. Not a lot of opportunity for... chemistry," he said, with kind of a grin, like this was an inside joke. Wyatt had no idea with who, because it sure wasn't him. "It’s not a bad way to get a good team.”
Wyatt frowned slightly. "Do you coach like Boston at your foundation?"
Rozanov gave him a look. "No," he said, like maybe Wyatt was a moron. "Those are children."
Wyatt wanted to point out the discrepancy there, almost pointed out that Rozanov could raise a whole generation of little foundation camp Rozanovs under the same training regimens he’d been put through if they were so great, but Rozanov was choosing not to. He didn't. Rozanov ran a hand over his hair like he got it anyway. "Is slightly different," he pointed out. "We are all adults. We don't need to be babied. We should be pushed to our best."
"Some rookies are eighteen," Wyatt pointed out. "Practically infants."
"I was not an infant at eighteen," Rozanov said. "But some people. Yes. But also, we don't have any rookies like that." He rolled his eyes. "Americans. Very soft."
"I'm Canadian."
"Same thing," he said, with a smirk.
"You take that back."
"It's okay. I have a soft spot for Canadians," Rozanov said, kind of pointlessly, since they were on a Canadian team and also, Wyatt had never seen Rozanov have a soft spot for anyone. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It doesn’t matter. Boston is a good team. But Wiebe doesn’t want a good team. He wants an excellent team. He wants a stunning team, like I said. He has long term goals, and long term vision, but this way is slow. Makes an excellent team. But also needs all the perfect people. I don’t think we have all the perfect people yet. Again. Slow process. But I agree with him, mostly. We have the same goals. We both want an excellent team who loves each other and lasts forever and is perfect.” He gave a bright, nearly manic smile, which then morphed into something a little more wolf-like. “I want to build a dynasty.” Then he sighed. “But I am… less patient than I used to be. And I like winning. Just in general. Hard to keep everyone’s motivation up when we all suck this fucking badly.”
Wyatt huffed a laugh. We. Hockey was a team sport, sure, but Wyatt was pretty sure Rozanov should not have been included in the we that sucked.
"Sorry," Rozanov said, with another laugh. "I'm talking off your ear. You can tell me if I'm boring you, you probably have places to be."
Wyatt shook his head. "It's interesting. I never put that much thought into, like, coaching. Or captaining. Just kind of take it for granted. Do you really think about all that, too? Look out for all our edges?"
Rozanov shrugged. "Is captain's job, too. I want everyone to be where they can be the best. For their sake, for team's sake.” He let out a slow breath. "I should probably just go along with what Wiebe says." Rozanov let out a slow breath. "We have the same goals, even if I think we could benefit a little from the Boston method, at least to start. To try something. But it’s not my strong suit, following directions."
Wyatt wasn't sure that was true.
“I can be headstrong,” Rozanov said, with the air of admitting a great secret. Wyatt snorted. That, he believed.
Rozanov tipped his head back and rested it against a cubby. It could not be comfortable. He sighed. "You don't smoke, do you?"
Wyatt shook his head.
"Fuck," Rozanov muttered. "Hard to bum a single cigarette off a team that doesn't smoke." He shook his head, sat up again, then gripped the back of his neck. "I really should just leave a pack here," he mumbled. "Could really fucking use one."
"Sorry," Wyatt tried.
"No, no, is my fault. And I shouldn't be smoking anyway." Rozanov gave Wyatt a faint, tired smile, and for some reason that kind of scared Wyatt. It was the least threatening Rozanov had ever been, even jokingly, and that was... terrifying. Wyatt suddenly wanted to ask if everything was okay, but he had the feeling that if he did, Roz would slam all of his walls back up, he would shut down, he would not appreciate the gesture. That this–whatever this fragile thread of trust was–would snap, and be gone, and maybe not be retrievable. Just like admitting to watching Rozanov practice alone on the ice earlier. It would not have the effect that Wyatt wanted.
So Wyatt just said, brightly, like he’d never suspected anything ever of being wrong with the world, “Listen, do you to come over? Lisa won’t be home for another two hours. We could just hang out before we get the pizza.”
Rozanov gave him another odd smile. “That would be nice. But next time, maybe? I have some phone calls I’m supposed to make later. I have to reassure a couple people that I do not regret coming here.”
“Do you?” Wyatt asked, before he could think better of it.
Rozanov scrubbed a hand over his face again, then shook his head slowly. “No. No, I don’t regret it. I would do it again.”
And Wyatt let himself ask. He had this one chance. “Why?”
“I told you,” Rozanov said, with that same odd smile. “I want to build something.” Then he made a shooing motion. “But go on. Go home. I should get out of these disgusting clothes,” he mumbled. “Well. Was nice talking to you, Hayes. Do it again sometime.”
So Wyatt left Rozanov to finish undressing and shower. He went, instead of to his car, to Wiebe's office, hoping he was still there.
He was. "Hey," Wiebe said, glancing up. "What can I do for you?"
"Do we need to worry about Roz?"
Wyatt kind of couldn't believe he'd said that. About anyone, that he'd go to a coach about anyone, least of all Ilya Rozanov. Wyatt had been on the team for barely a month, and he thought it was his place to do this? Maybe Rozanov was just like that. Wyatt was definitely sure that Rozanov would kill him, cleanly, instantly, if he found out that he'd asked their coach if something was wrong with him. But Wyatt had a decent sense of people, and he had the sense that Rozanov was not normally just like that. He also had the sense that Wiebe wasn’t a fucking idiot, and wouldn’t say anything to Rozanov, or to anyone else.
Coach Wiebe's expression didn't change, which was what Wyatt had been nervous about.
"Is there something specific you mean by that?" Wiebe asked.
"Not... not really."
Wiebe looked at him for a minute, but that was all Wyatt was willing to say.
"I don't think so," Wiebe finally said. "A lot of players need adjustment time when they change teams after half a career." He raised his eyebrows at Wyatt, like he was saying like you might. And that's fine. We'll handle it. “I had the same talk with him a couple months ago that I had with you tonight. And he’s the one who sought out Ottawa.”
Wyatt nodded.
“But,” Wiebe said. “You and I could, maybe, on the down low, keep an eye on him.”
And that was enough for Wyatt to lock in. He nodded, glad that he wasn’t the only one noticing, that Wiebe was also not quite letting this slide. “Right. Yeah.”
"And don't mention this to anyone else," Wiebe said. "Especially not him."
"Oh, yeah, for sure. I won't say shit." He gave Wiebe a little salute, then bade him goodnight and headed out to his car. He wasn’t going to mention it to anyone. Except to Lisa, because he had to tell her. And Lisa was a steel vault. She wouldn’t tell anyone, not even the other WAGs. She would, however, be able to also keep an eye on Rozanov when she came to parties with him. She would be able to subtly fish out any rumors from the WAG rumor mill, about Rozanov and what was maybe up with him. And maybe between the two of them, they could come up with a plan to invite Rozanov to more things. Wyatt had heard that Rozanov didn’t go out much anymore, a stark contrast from his early years, and that he routinely was unavailable, despite most of his social medias going fairly dark. Except his weird instagram. But it was fine. If there was one thing Wyatt was good at–other than letting three goals in, apparently–it was being friendly. Surely he could wheedle his way in.