Chapter Text
“Ilya, are you even listening to me?” His gaze is quick to turn to Cliff Marleau, feeling like he’s been caught—which, maybe he had been, he thinks. Ilya had been too enthralled with the boy standing behind the front desk, a spattering of little brown dots across his face.
веснушки. Freckles, he thinks they’re called in English.
These freckles fell below deep, chocolate eyes framed by long, dark lashes. They lay gently over a straight nose, pointing down to plush rosy lips. Прекрасный. So beautiful. Ilya had never seen him before, and Ilya almost felt like he was in mourning for the days wasted not staring at him.
Ilya heard a scoff and a chuckle, finally pulling himself from his entrancement, remembering he wasn’t alone and two of his teammates were watching with disbelief. Cliff’s eyes try to track whatever Ilya is looking at as he spoke again, “Bro, what chick’s got you foaming at the mouth like this, holy shit.”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Marly,” he bit back, shoving his shoulder playfully. “I am too distracted thinking what an idiot you are that you cannot do simple math.”
Cliff chuckled, “You’re such a fucking dick, Rozy.” He shoved Ilya back a little harder, slamming his textbook shut, as to signal he was done with whatever studying they were all pretending to do. “Anyways, I was asking if you knew anything about the new kid that’s starting this season with us. He transferred from—where again?” Cliff looked towards Zane Boodram, Ilya’s left wing, for confirmation.
“McGill, I think,” responded Zane, brows furrowed in thought. “Also, the guy is hardly a kid, Marly. He’s the same age as Roz.”
Cliff shrugged, “Eh, y’all are kids to me if you’re under 20.”
“Just because you are dinosaur senior player does not make us kids, Marly,” chirped Ilya, rolling his eyes and sneaking a glance back at Freckles. “Also, to answer your question, no. Coach only told me his last name and that he is centre and has good stats. I was too lazy to look him up.”
“Centre?” Ilya affirmed with a hum. “So, he’s taking your spot?”
Ilya whipped his head to look at his friend, who was smirking at him. “Fuck you, Marly. I will make him wing me instead of you if you keep saying stupid shit.”
“Well, he must be pretty fucking good if Coach didn’t even make him try out with everyone else,” Zane interjected, shrugging his shoulders. Ilya nodded but doesn’t say much more, once again distracted by the freckled boy, who had gone from scanning returned books to meticulously organizing them on a cart to place back into the library.
Ilya watched his long fingers wrap around the spine of one of the books, carefully reading over the label before somehow deciding where he was going to put it on the return cart. The boy repeated this process, his bottom lip rolling between his teeth thoughtfully and without any knowledge of what he was doing to Ilya.
Once again, it was Cliff’s voice that broke through his trance, “If you wanna hit on the hot librarian guy, you can, Roz.” Ilya glanced at his friend, his brow furrowed when he noticed Zane had disappeared. “He went to class—if you weren’t so distracted blushing over that guy you’re clearly into, you probably would’ve heard him say that.”
“Ah, sorry.” Ilya did feel a little bad that he was so distracted. “Also, I am not blushing. Russians do not do this.”
“Then what do Russians call it when your cheeks get all rosy and your eyes get all round and glassy? Here we call it blushing.”
Ilya bit, “We call it трахать тебя actually.”
Cliff laughed heartily, “I’ve played two seasons with you, man—I know that means ‘Fuck you.’ Listen—all I’m saying is that you can go say hi or whatever. Flirt your heart out. You know I don’t care, and neither do the guys.”
Ilya shrugged, “I know. Sorry. Still weird, I think, that it is okay for me to do that here.”
Cliff nodded as if he understood, and while Ilya knows he can’t truly understand, some part of Ilya thinks that Cliff understands the most out of all of his friends. Maybe him and Bood. And Troy. “Go say hi to him. Use that ‘Ilya Rozanov’ magic on him, or whatever.”
Ilya chanced a look back at the front desk again, and nodded, standing slowly. He rolled his shoulders to relieve the anxiety and straightened up, putting on his signature smirk as he sauntered to the counter.
He leaned casually on one elbow, taking a moment to admire the face up close. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the beating of his heart when he finally saw the freckles up close. They drove him wild. Eventually, he cleared his throat subtly and was hit by…something…when the brown eyes found his.
“Oh,” whispered the man, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second, before smiling. “Hi, I’m sorry—I was in the zone. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”
Ilya shook his head. “You did not.” It had been a while since his accent had made him feel insecure. He had been living in Canada regularly for over two years, and he had focused much of his free time on improving his English. However, standing in front of this—him, well, it was like all knowledge fled the scene.
The man was still smiling professionally. “Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, uh,” stumbled Ilya. He looked around the library quickly, trying to come up with anything, but his eyes caught Cliff instead, who was giving him the thumbs up. He rolled his eyes but smiled again and turned toward the librarian. “I lost my number.”
Freckles tilted his head, clearly confused. “Like your log number for a book you’re searching for?”
Ilya wanted to bite him out of cuteness aggression, but instead shook his head, “Mm-mm. My phone number. I was hoping I could have yours as replacement.” Ilya didn’t think the boy’s freckles could get anymore beautiful until they were suddenly flocked by a tint of pink. “Wow,” slipped past Ilya’s lips softly before he could stop himself.
Seemingly a glutton for punishment, the boy responded, “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing—just…your freckles. And your blush. I have never seen something so…Прекрасный.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t—“ Understand? Speak Russian? The boy shook his head, clearly not understanding what Ilya said, but probably getting the gist by the way the color in his cheeks deepened even more.
“Beautiful,”
“Oh.” Ilya watched the blush somehow soften, as did his eyes and smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry I don’t speak…”
It was clear he didn’t want to make assumptions about Ilya’s accent or language, so he put him out of his misery with a smile, “русский. Russian.”
The man nodded softly. “Russian. I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian.”
“Maybe I can teach beautiful boy with freckles Russian sometime then, yes?”
Ilya had managed to make the freckled boy blush again as he stuttered, “Oh—uh. I mean, that would be—I don’t want to say no like I don’t want to learn Russian.” He chuckled awkwardly. “Because it sounds really beautiful when you speak it—not like I’m calling you—I mean, you are beautiful but that’s also not what I’m…Fuck.” The last word from his mouth was breathy and probably wasn’t mean to be heard by Ilya. Not that Ilya could follow everything the man was saying, considering how fast and low he was speaking, and Ilya was distracted by everything else about him, but he definitely caught the man calling him beautiful, too.
When the man had a moment to breathe, he shook his head to reset and met Ilya’s eyes again. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever been called beautiful, but apparently it makes me sound like an idiot when I am.”
Ilya smiled brightly, shooting back, “Guess I will be making you sound like idiot a lot then.”
Finally calm and collected, the man chuckled and nodded, holding out a hand for Ilya to shake, “I’m Shane.” Ilya looked at the outstretched hand and took it, despite the confusion rinsing over his body. Shane’s touch was soft and warm, though, so it was definitely worth it.
“Ilya.” Shane repeats it back, rolling it on his tongue and making sure he makes the correct emphasis on the syllables.
“You’re captain of the men’s hockey team,” asked Shane, tilting his head, but it sounded more like a statement than a question. “Rozanov, right?”
“Ah, so you know about me,” Ilya smirks, turning up the charm.
Shane nodded, but his expression turned more analytical. “Yeah, I like to do research on new teammates. It’d be hard not to have heard of you regardless—you’re kinda the talk of all university hockey leagues.”
This time, it’s Ilya who’s caught off guard. Hollander. Shane Hollander does seem to move together nicely—his new teammate, centre, great stats. Something in Ilya’s chest squeezed, worried that he had messed up his relationship with his new teammate by hitting on him, but then he remembered that Shane had also called him beautiful, so maybe he was okay.
He didn’t falter and decided to push forward, “Mm, yes. People love to talk about my muscles and being number one player in the league. You are Hollander then, yes? Second best player in the league?”
Shane scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, I’m Shane Hollander. And that’s kinda an asshole thing to say, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” smirked Ilya. Shane just chuckled in return. “So, you will help me find my phone number by giving me yours, yes? I mean, I will need it as your captain, so I can text you…team updates. Only team updates of course.”
Shane appeared more confident this time around, shaking his head incredulously but pulling out his phone anyway. He opened up his contact folder, then handed the phone over to Ilya, who was quick to enter in his information.
When Shane took his phone back, he said, “Seems like you know your number again. Glad I could help.” He winked before turning around and pushing the return cart out behind the counter, sauntering away. Ilya could do nothing else but watch, mouth slightly ajar as Cliff approached him from his left side.
“Damn, Rozy. I didn’t think anyone could leave you speechless like that,” he joked, but Ilya was still enthralled as Shane disappeared behind a shelf of books. “Who does he think he is?”
Ilya felt slightly in the clouds when he replied, “He is Shane Hollander. Our new centre.”
Cliff clapped him on the shoulder, heading back to the table they were studying at to pack up the rest of their things. Ilya eventually moved, picking up his phone to put in his bag when it vibrated in his hand.
There was a single text from an unknown number waiting for him.
Maybe I can learn more Russian between games?
Ilya smiled, saving the contact in his phone as “Freckles” and quickly typing his response: i am in gold hall, room 1221. come whenever ;). He walked away with a smile on his face and totally not a blush across his cheeks.