Work Text:
2008 (December)
Shane Hollander had never been the best at social situations, and walking into a crowded room full of artificial lights that was completely surrounded by cameras was just about his worst nightmare.
In Los Angeles, no less.
So, even though it made him feel like a little kid, he was extremely glad to have his mother (and manager) by his side.
There really was no one as good as Yuna Hollander when it came to working a room, and Shane was more than happy to let her lead any and every conversation while he smiled politely and nodded at the appropriate times.
Yuna looked stunning in a simple yet elegant floor-length gown, and Shane could not feel more out of place when surrounded by so much beauty even if his own tailored suit was supposed to fit him perfectly (and did).
It was made worse by the fact that he was surrounded by professional athletes who exuded that particular brand of arrogance and confidence that he was sure he’d never be able to achieve. Not without actively trying, at least.
But while he had tried to argue against attending the ESPYS, Shane knew it could be great for his career.
After leading Canada to a resounding win over Russia at the International Prospect Cup, professional analysts and armchair experts alike had cemented him as the logical first pick for the upcoming NHL Draft.
And although Korogyi and Lemaire would undoubtedly be up there with him, he knew that their stats weren’t remotely comparable to his own.
But while Shane would never hide behind a false sense of modesty, showing his face around his future colleagues (and employers) was never a bad idea.
He had shaken more hands than he could count and heard more names than he’d ever be able to remember, but he’d also been approached (or, as Yuna said, courted) by several NHL teams, including the Montreal Voyageurs and the Boston Bears head coaches.
Being drafted by either team would be an absolute dream, of course, but the national pride that stubbornly lived in his heart did hope he could stay close to home.
He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts as the announcer issued the 15 second warning before they’d be back on air, all attendees quickly getting back into their seats in anticipation for the next award that’d be handed: Rookie of the Year.
The reigning Formula 1 World Champion Lewis Hamilton walked into the stage to thunderous applause, many going as far as to get on their feet to give him the standing ovation he undoubtedly deserved.
Shane may not know much about Formula 1 as a whole, but even he knew about the first black driver to not just compete in the sport, but actually win a world title.
It was impressive, to say the least.
“Thank you, thank you.” Lewis spoke into the mic, politely signalling to the audience to settle down. “Just last year I had the honour of standing on this stage after receiving the award for Rookie of the Year. And now, almost 365 days later, I have the different honour of being the one to hand it out, standing before all of you as a Formula 1 World Champion.”
The renewed applause that followed his words was deafening, and it took him a solid ten seconds to proceed.
“All this to say, you’d all do well to remember the names and faces of the athletes who are nominated tonight. There is no doubt in anyone’s minds that they’re destined for greatness,” a smug little grin stretched Lewis’s lips, “take it from me.”
Someone whooped at their neighbouring table, and Shane would be the first to admit that he was very inspired by his words, unable to resist the urge to imagine himself in Hamilton’s shoes in the not so distant future.
“Here are the nominees for Rookie of the year: Karim Benzema, Lyon.” Pause for applause. “Matt Ryan, the Atlanta Falcons.” Pause for applause. “Derrick Ryan, the Chicago Bulls.”
This pause was longer than the others, and even from afar he could see a spark in Lewis’s eyes as he announced the last name.
“… and Ilya Rozanov, McLaren Mercedes.”
Shane’s interest was spiked by that name, one that sounded strangely familiar even if he couldn’t quite pinpoint where he’d heard it before.
He had heard of the Russian wunderkind that had taken the motorsport world by storm, of course. It was practically impossible to miss it, seeing as how ESPN, Fox, Sky and every outlet that covered the sporting world was fascinated by him and his story.
But it wasn’t until now, hearing that peculiar name spoken into a microphone in front of a live audience, that Shane thought he might have known it for longer than he’d realised.
Before it was a name worth recognising.
“And the ESPY goes to…” Lewis couldn’t hide his smile even if he tried, and Shane knew which words would come out of his mouth before he said them. “Oh he’ll be insufferable about this, Ilya Rozanov, McLaren Mercedes!”
The room erupted into more applause, and it was only inertia that made Shane join in.
His eyes, however, were firmly focused in the man (boy, really) hastily making his way up to the stage, very nearly running in his excitement.
When the cameras found him and projected his image onto the massive screens that flanked the stage, Shane felt his breath hitch.
Because Ilya Rozanov was beautiful.
As was the privilege of many eastern-europeans, it seemed like the awkwardness that plagued adolescents all around the world had simply decided to skip him.
His cheekbones and jaw were so defined that Shane could have sworn someone had taken the time the sculpt them by hand, white skin smooth as marble save for the few dark moles that adorned his face.
Though it was obvious that someone had spent a considerable amount of time slicking up his curls, there were a few stray ones that fell artfully over his forehead, bouncing merrily in time with his steps.
But what really made his breath come out short was his smile, dazzling, seeming to shine brighter than any of the floodlights that were pointed towards him.
When he reached the stage he wasted no time before all but jumping on Lewis, the older man happily accepting his enthusiastic embrace with a chuckle that resounded across the room, wrapping his arms around Ilya trophy and all.
It was clear to everyone that Lewis was actually fond of his teenage teammate, as was the fact that his fondness was returned tenfold.
When Ilya finally approached the mic, Lewis remained off to the side, watching him with a pride that was better suited for an older brother rather than a colleague.
“Thank you, thank you.” Ilya started, voice thick with emotion (and his accent). He tilted his head back towards Lewis, sending him a shit-eating grin. “I hope you still say good things about me after I beat world record for youngest F1 champion.”
The room laughed as Lewis rolled his eyes, but even that gesture was full of loving exasperation.
“But really, it is a big honor to win this award over the other nominees. I will make sure you don’t regret giving this to me,” at that, his smile sharpened, blue eyes flickering with an intensity that nearly sent a shiver down Shane’s spine. “That is promise.”
Applause erupted once more as Ilya lifted the trophy over his head, murmuring something inaudible towards the sky with a hand clutching the delicate chain that rested above his heart before walking off the stage with Lewis in tow, already talking his ear off about God knows what.
“Seems a bit arrogant, doesn’t he?” Yuna broke him out of his Rozanov-induced trance, voice low so only he could hear. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s got good reason to be.”
Shane gulped, throat suddenly feeling uncharacteristically dry. “Yeah, I guess he does.”
After that the remaining awards felt horribly dull, and the rest of the night passed by in a blur, with Shane feeling his already insufficient social battery going down by the second.
Very few of the awards involved the NHL, and while Shane could respect every type of sport he wouldn’t say he was a fan of anything that didn’t involve a puck getting smacked around an ice rink.
He reached a compromise with his mom to only attend the after party for a maximum of half an hour, and proceeded to ignore her half-hearted glare as he quickly excused himself to the bathroom in order to shave off some precious minutes.
He even made the extra effort to avoid the nearest bathroom, instead walking to the far end of the venue where he could find a - hopefully - deserted alternative.
Except when he pushed open the door, he stopped dead on his tracks.
Because sitting on top of the white counters was none other than Ilya Rozanov himself, a lit cigarette dangling from his parted lips despite the fact that Shane was pretty sure he was breaking several state laws by smoking indoors.
The Russian didn’t look the least bit bothered by his intrusion, taking a slow drag from his death stick and not bothering to hide the cloud of smoke that blew out of his nostrils.
(Shane would never admit to feeling heat pool low in his belly at the sight, choosing to pass it off as righteous indignation.)
“Um - I’m pretty sure you can’t do that in here.” He blurted out after several seconds of silence, feeling a flush creep up his neck at the perfectly raised eyebrow he got in response.
“Oh? You gonna call for police?”
If his rough voice had done something to him when projected across an auditorium, it was borderline intoxicating in close proximity.
He was certain that his blush had made it all the way to the tips of his ears, and not for the first time he cursed the fact that he was so easily flustered.
“N-No, of course not.”
Despite his nonchalance, Rozanov mercifully stubbed out the cigarette against the sink, letting the water flow for a second to wash the ashes down the drain.
“There, no more evidence of my crimes.” He retorted, a mocking tinge to his words.
Shane had no idea how to reply to that, shuffling awkwardly on his feet as the silence stretched between them.
To make matters worse Rozanov didn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by any of it, but at least he put him out of his misery by extending a hand towards him.
He walked forward on instinct alone, softly clasping his outstretched hand and feeling a brief spark of electricity shooting up his arm at the touch.
If the Russian felt it too he didn’t comment on it, simply quirking the corner of his lips upwards into a smirk.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
“I know.” Shane nodded, having to gently clear his throat before getting any other words out. “Uh, I’m Shane Hollander. Congratulations on your win.”
He looked unexpectedly delighted by the acknowledgement, amusement dancing across his eyes as Shane wiped his sweaty hands as discreetly as he could against his soft slacks.
“Thank you Shane Hollander.” He answered, and Shane had to make a conscious effort to ignore the little thrill he felt at hearing his name curl around Rozanov’s tongue. “I know you, too.”
Shane furrowed his brow, embarrassment replaced by confusion. “You do?”
Ilya nodded. “Da. Hockey is big sport in Russia, I can’t forget name of the captain who beat us in the IPC… congratulations, by the way.”
And, well. If Shane thought he was blushing before it was nothing compared to the almost dizzying rush of blood to the head those words provoked.
“Thanks.” He breathed out, surely imagining how Ilya’s eyes darted to his lips and back up to his eyes. “Did - did you play? Before F1?”
The driver hummed, fingers twitching as if in search for the cigarette he had discarded.
“For a while, when I was a kid.” He shrugged. “But then I got scouted by karting team, and I learned driving fast cars is more exciting than skating no matter how fast you go.” Rozanov leaned forward, as if about to share a secret. “Though I was very fast,” He continued, that spark of arrogance he’d noticed earlier back in his gaze, “maybe in another life I could give you a run for your money.”
Shane wasn’t so sure about that.
He scoffed, less annoyed and more genuinely amazed by the sheer audacity of this guy to think that he could actually compete against a player who was about to go pro.
“You wish.”
Though it seemed impossible by now, Shane was yet again blindsided as Ilya jumped off from the counter, taking a single, slow step until they were practically chest to chest.
This close it was more noticeable that he was all lean muscle and sharp angles, the only big differences between them being the three inches he had over him and the very thick neck all professional drivers trained so hard to maintain.
He gulped, the sound seeming to reverberate across the empty stalls.
“Maybe I do.”
Rozanov’s low voice did send a shiver down his spine, and when his eyes once again dropped to his lips he had to bite his tongue to stifle a gasp.
Surely there was no way he was imagining this, right?
Except before he could react Ilya was already stepping away and around him, giving his arm a squeeze that all but lit the skin under his suit jacket on fire before moving to open the door with one last look over his shoulder.
“See you around Hollander. I’ll watch you on tv.” He winked. And just like that, he was gone.
All of the breath rushed out of Shane’s lungs, his body physically deflating.
He had no idea what the fuck had just happened, but he was sure that he’d never be able to forget it.
(Not even if he tried.)
2009 (November)
Ilya couldn’t tell you how long he’d been in the same exact position he was currently in: laying flat on his back on the comfortable, king-sized mattress at whichever hotel they were in for the night, lazily throwing a little Marina Bay-branded foam ball up and down in a repetitive motion he’d never admit was a cover up for his stress.
Both himself and Lewis were entirely too exhausted after a difficult race to even think about braving the Singapore heat, and their combined stubbornness had been enough to get Button off their backs about it.
Lewis’s trophy was carefully placed on the side table, only after the brit had meticulously cleaned off the sticky remains of the too-sweet champagne.
Usually, Ilya would be more ticked off at losing to his teammate than he presently was, but after taking the victory in his home soil he couldn’t be too disappointed.
(At least it wasn’t Rosberg.)
The only sound in the room came from the small flatscreen that bathed the room in a soft glow as it played a recap of last night’s IPC final, in which Canada had once again decimated Russia 5 goals to 1.
Hollander had even scored a hat trick, and Ilya felt strangely pleased to know that the shy Canadian boy he had met had proven to be just as special as everyone expected him to be.
As Ilya himself quickly noticed he was.
Lewis didn’t care at all for the NHL or any form of competitive hockey, but he was very good at humouring his newfound obsession without any comment, one that had come back with a vengeance after last year’s ESPYS for reasons he had yet to discover.
“So… Red Bull, huh?”
The only sign that Ilya had noticed Lewis finally breaking their comfortable silence was the tiniest quirk of his lips, but he didn’t stop throwing the little ball up and down the air, much less actually turn to look at him.
If he accepted Horner’s offer, this was one of the things he’d miss the most: Lewis’s zero-bullshit policy, and his almost eastern european ability to be honest to a fault.
“Da.” He answered, eyes lazily trailing the ball’s path. “Is not a bad deal.”
Lewis hummed, fingers lightly drumming an unknown rhythm from where they were resting across his chest.
“I bet. You’re a multiple race winner, and as much as he’d like to think otherwise Webber is not made to be a champion.”
At that, Ilya allowed himself a proper smile. “He is not. He is also seventy years old.”
His teammate huffed out a laugh, very used to Ilya’s particular brand of humour and strange aversion towards most other drivers that weren’t him.
“Not quite, but he’s too set in his ways, and he’s not hungry enough.” He craned his neck towards him, those big brown eyes landing on him with an earnestness that Ilya could feel even without looking. “Not like you.”
The ball fell on top of the sheets with a thump.
“Do you -“ he paused, cleared his throat, “do you think it is a good idea?”
He resisted the urge to squirm under the scrutiny of Lewis’s gaze, stubbornly keeping his own fixed on the beige-coloured ceiling.
Despite his well known attitude - one that was usually described as arrogant, cocky, or overall dick-ish - Ilya knew that Lewis knew how much he valued his opinion. In fact, that it was one of the only opinions he valued.
Although there was only one year between their rookie seasons (and five years between them in age), Ilya had looked up to Lewis ever since they met during their time in the lower formulas, when they - against all odds - managed to bond over the shared experience of being seen as the odd one out no matter what room they stepped into.
Ilya would never presume to have had it even half as hard as Lewis had, and that was a big part of the reason why he respected him so, but their career paths had overlapped enough that their friendship and camaraderie simply bloomed.
Especially when Anthony Hamilton took one look at his pale, skinny frame and “big, sad eyes” and decided to informally adopt him as his own.
Much to Nico Rosberg’s distaste, and Ilya’s subsequent satisfaction.
All this to say, Ilya actually cared about what Lewis thought of his possible move.
His actual father hadn’t stopped pestering him to sign with Red Bull, his years-long friendship (if you could even call it that) with their senior advisor Helmut Marko being enough to convince him they had the “right mentality” on that team “despite being British”.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
He would also have a substantial increase to his salary, well over a six figure sum, and no matter how much he tried to steer away from the influence of his family, he couldn’t avoid thinking that having more money to give them would make things easier.
(Deep down, he also knew that nothing would ever satisfy Grigori Rozanov, much less his brother, Alexei)
But no - if he was going to make such a drastic move so early into his career. He would do it for himself and himself alone. And he would fight tooth and nail to prove it had been the right one.
“I think that no one can know what’s better for you other than yourself.” Lewis started, being more careful than usual while choosing his words. “That being said… I also think that McLaren can’t give you what you need.”
Ilya’s head snapped towards him without his volition, pale blue eyes wide.
Lewis smiled, fully rolling onto his side so he could properly give him his undivided attention.
“McLaren is a good team, and I really do think that it can go back to being great. But while Horner is an asshole, I know that he’s willing to light an entire garage on fire if it means having a champion on his side.”
He gulped, brow creasing into a frown. “But I am no champion.”
“Not yet.” Lewis corrected. “And not if I can help it.” There he gave him a cheeky wink. “What I’m trying to say is that Red Bull will not hesitate to build their team around one driver, one who has the potential to finally give them that glory they’ve poured millions of pounds into getting.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air for a few beats. “But that driver is not Coulthard, and it’s certainly not Webber.”
Understanding dawned on him then, and he felt a familiar rush start coursing through his very veins.
“But it can be me.” Ilya finished, saying the quiet part out loud.
Lewis’s responding grin was blinding. “It can be you.”
2010 (August)
Shane Hollander was not nervous. He had no reason to be nervous.
It wasn’t like this was the first ever promotional shoot he’d participated in, and all things considered Red Bull wasn’t the most demanding of sponsors.
Be pictured with a can here or there, participate in some sporting event or other, wear a branded t-shirt.
This time he only had to shoot a short commercial and pose for a couple of pictures, something about “Red Bull’s rising stars” that was supposed to show how invested the energy drinks brand was in supporting young talent.
As everyone had expected, he’d been the number one overall pick in this year’s NHL Draft, signing a very generous four year contract with the Montreal Voyageurs that officially made him part of one of the six original franchise teams, one that was also the most successful in hockey history.
After that the offers had come piling in, with Red Bull offering one of the most lucrative and non-demanding partnerships that he’d be a fool to pass up on.
All this to say, it was no wonder they’d asked him to take part in this particular ad.
And it was equally as unsurprising to find out who was joining him.
What had been a massive surprise was Ilya Rozanov announcing that he was leaving McLaren Mercedes after only two years to sign with Red Bull Racing, the team having enough faith in the young driver to offer him an unprecedented 5 year contract that had everyone assuming he’d be the number one driver over veteran Mark Webber.
(When he’d brought it up at the dinner table, his mom had asked him when he’d become a Formula 1 fan. Shane scrambled through some excuse about being very interested in the engineering part of it all before turning his attention back to his salmon.)
Many people saw it as a betrayal, an insult to the team that’d given him a chance in the big leagues in the first place.
Others saw it as a smart move, a bold decision that had him join a team that was willing to rebuild itself around him.
From what little Shane knew about Rozanov (and how much he’d researched about him), he was certain that the Russian hadn’t taken this decision lightly.
And even though the championship race was locked in a four-way battle with no set victor on sight, Ilya could very well be on his path to winning it all at only nineteen years old.
Though they were in completely different sports, Shane had to admit that seeing Rozanov’s success had his competitive side flaring up, not keen to be outshined by any athlete of his generation.
He smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles on his jersey one last time, admiring how the Voyageurs’s logo looked across his chest even if this wasn’t the specific jersey he’d be wearing come September.
The blue had been slightly altered to be Red Bull-blue so that it would perfectly march with the livery of their F1 car.
(And of Rozanov’s race suit, though he was trying his damnedest not to think about that.)
With one final deep breath, bracing himself like he was heading out to war instead of going to pose for some pictures, he exited the surprisingly spacious motorhome, walking towards their designated space and willing his hands to stop shaking.
Thoughts were running through his mind a thousand miles an hour, and an embarrassing majority revolved around a cocky smirk punctuated by a beauty mark, and the horrible uncertainty on whether he’d be remembered or not.
Should he introduce himself again? Was it too presumptuous to assume Rozanov remembered him from a brief encounter that happened a year ago?
Shane held as still as he could as a woman lightly powdered his forehead, following her directions to turn his head up, down and sideways as another stylist fussed with his hair.
“Go light on the makeup ladies, it’d be shame to cover up his pretty freckles.”
He nearly jumped out of his skin as Rozanov seemingly appeared out of thin air, flushing under the hairstylist’s glower while the makeup lady giggled.
Shane’s heart leapt to his throat when his eyes finally landed on Ilya Rozanov in the flesh after only watching him through a skin for so long. The first thought that crossed his mind was that he’d somehow gotten taller.
In his personal opinion, no one should be allowed to look that good wearing those fuckass race suits, and to add insult to injury he had it unzipped all the way to his waist, revealing the skin-tight white fireproofs that left next to nothing to the imagination.
His shock was so strong he forgot he should probably say something, and judging by Rozanov’s futile attempts to hide an amused smirk he knew it too.
“Hello again Hollander.”
He flushed harder.
“Rozanov,” he answered, voice breathier than he would’ve wanted. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
And maybe it’d be better if he pretended he’d taken a vow of silence because why the fuck would he even say that?
Ilya honest to God beamed. “Ah, but how could I forget the man who told me off for smoking?”
The girls mercifully retreated without saying a word, giving them a false sense of privacy Shane wasn’t sure he appreciated.
“Right. You should really kick that habit you know? Smoking is bad for you.”
Against all odds, that impossibly wide smile got wider. “Oh, really? First time I’ve ever heard that, Russian medicine must be more behind than we’d thought.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Even if that was true you’ve lived in England for ages now haven’t you?”
“Oh?” Rozanov started, and the glint in his eyes let him know he’d just made a terrible mistake. “Hollander, did you investigate me?”
“Shut up.” Shane snapped, starting to feel like a broken record. “ESPN talks about you all the time, okay?” He brushed his hands over his jersey, knowing perfectly well there wasn’t a single wrinkle on sight. “It’s hard to miss it.”
The driver hummed, visibly pleased. “Yes, I am very impressive, very hard to forget.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“That too.”
Shane scoffed, and yet he couldn’t fight the smile that treacherously stretched his lips.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think Rozanov’s smirk lost a touch of its edge.
“Is okay, I read about you too.” Without him noticing, Ilya had started to slowly step forward, getting way further into his personal space than Shane would expect. “Boston is better,” he shrugged, taking one step closer. “But Montreal is not bad.” He was so close now that Shane could feel the warmth of his breath, count the flecks of gold that adorned his blue eyes like stars did the sky. “Will you disappoint them?”
And Shane? He forgot all about his nerves, the competitive flame that always burned inside him lighting up like a forest fire.
“Nope.” He replied, voice steady, brown eyes unwavering. “Will you?”
“No.”
Shane couldn’t tell you how long they stood there, staring at each other, sizing the other up, this strange electricity they’d first felt while standing in a venue’s bathroom crackling like mad.
Irrationally, Shane wondered how it would’ve been if Rozanov had continued pursuing hockey instead of pivoting to Formula 1.
Though he’d never say it out loud (his ego did not need another boost), he thought he might have actually given him hell.
On the ice and off it.
He wondered if Ilya thought so too.
“Alright boys! Glad you’ve made your acquaintances.” The director’s voice broke the spell, Rozanov taking a measured step back while Shane startled back as if burned. “Let’s get to it shall we?”
Shane tried not to have any expectations coming into this shoot, so he was pleasantly surprised by how fun it was working with Ilya.
For the most part they wanted to have Ilya leaning against the cockpit of the car (which he explained was a modified version of last year’s RB5) with Shane standing just to the side grasping a hockey stick, the only major changes being their expressions (“let me see those smiles, okay now give me your best smoulder, I wanna see more fire in those gazes!”) or their exact positions (“Shane could you lower your hold on the stick? Ilya straighten your back a bit more for me.”).
And while Shane wouldn’t consider himself to be the best model, Ilya’s attitude did wonders to loosen him up. He kept a constant chatter between takes that he was sure were driving the director and the AD mad, alternating between silly jokes and actual information about his car and how different it was from the McLaren he’d previously driven that was actually very interesting to hear.
Shane was content to listen to the Russian’s monologue, but quickly realised that Ilya wouldn’t have it, asking a million questions about stick tape and shoulder straps and whether he favoured his forehand or his backhand.
(“I knew it was forehand, your backhand is pretty weak.”
“You fucking asshole.”)
It was all so easy he barely noticed the people running around the makeshift set to change the position of floodlights and polish stains only they could see on the shiny blue livery, the conversation flowing as they led them to sit on top of one of the front wheels each.
“The championship is super close this year right? And it’s the first time you’re properly fighting for it?”
“Da. Is fun fighting with Lewis, not so much with Webber and Alonso.” Ilya answered, as honest as he ever was. “The car is a beauty, I’ve put her on pole many times. Problem is I haven’t won as much as I should have, that’s why they’re still in competition.”
Shane nodded. “Right. But it’s also about consistency yeah? Like hockey.” Ilya frowned, his confusion urging him to go on. “Winning a lot is all well and good, but you can get to the finals from the fifth seed as much as you can from the first. You need to be reliable.”
Rozanov considered this for a second, before tilting his head in acquiescence. “I guess so. Lewis and Webber have won more than me, but they have also placed lower. That hurts their points, is why they can’t build a big advantage.”
“Exactly! I’m not saying don’t try to win, but don’t risk not getting any points to do it.”
Shane’s grin dimmed a bit when he noticed the intensity of Ilya’s gaze. The driver was looking at him like he was a puzzle he wasn’t close to solving, but one he desperately wanted to figure out.
“What?” He finally asked, unable to put up with this silent staring any longer.
Rozanov shook his head, face slipping back into a perfect mask of easy neutrality.
“Nothing. Just thinking you would make a good captain, you give very good advice.”
He had lost count of how many times he had blushed during the last hour, but he was sure the numbers had to be embarrassingly high.
“I’m not even a rookie yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Ilya affirmed. “Sometimes talent is more important than experience,” he gave a brief, meaningful lift of his eyebrows. “If you play your cards right I’m sure the Voyageurs will see that.”
And honestly, it was alarming how flattered he felt.
Before today he had thought that Ilya Rozanov was all arrogance with a hefty dose of a God-complex, and while that might be true, he never undermined anyone’s talent in a serious way.
Sure, he talked a lot of shit about some of his fellow drivers, but he also recognised their strengths.
Clearly, he was capable of appreciating talent that wasn’t his own.
A loud sighed resounded across the Gilles Villeneuve Circuit, drawing their attention away from each other and towards the poor director who was looking at them with the exhaustion of a young mother tasked with wrangling two uncooperative toddlers.
“Boys I love to see that you’re getting along well, but can I please have your undivided attention for five minutes and then I promise I’ll let you go?”
Shane muttered some apologies as Ilya gave her a teasing salute, but they still shared a conspiratorial smile before bending to her wishes and turning back to the camera, trying to avoid looking like two chastised, cheeky children instead of the professional athletes they were.
True to her promise, they wrapped things up pretty quickly, and all that was left to do take some solo shots and call it a day before the sun started to set.
“I wish we could have done some hot laps,” Ilya lamented, staring longingly at the track ahead. “I said the idea to my team but they weren’t sure your team would agree.”
Shane snorted, dutifully handing over the hockey stick to someone from the crew. “They absolutely wouldn’t, my mom gets terrified when I go 65 in a 60.”
“Yes but I am greatest driver of my generation.” Ilya reasoned with a wink. “You’d be very safe as my copilot, promise.”
“Maybe not when his first preseason is right around the corner Mr. Rozanov.” A familiar voice cut in, Shane immediately straightening up as his mom suddenly appeared beside him before offering her hand to the driver. “I’m Yuna, Shane’s mom.”
Ilya didn’t hesitate for a second before taking her outstretched hand, flashing her that million dollar grin that made his entire face light up.
God, it was unfair how handsome he looked.
“Ah, I see where Shane gets his good looks from.” He replied, easily pulling a surprised chuckle out of the usually implacable Yuna Hollander.
He didn’t need a mirror to know his cheeks were burning red, feeling equal parts mortified and exasperated by how utterly charmed his mother looked.
“I’m afraid I can only take half the credit for that.”
“Definitely the better half,” he retorted, not missing a beat. “No offence to Mr. Hollander.”
Shane gave Yuna an affronted look when she actually laughed out loud, and Ilya looked entirely too smug about it all.
“I’m sure he won’t take any. Good luck for the rest of your season Mr. Rozanov.”
Until today, Shane wouldn’t have thought it possible to see a 6’3 man preen.
And yet, here Ilya Rozanov was. Proving him wrong once again.
“Thank you ma’am. And please, call me Ilya.”
“Only if you call me Yuna.”
“Okay!” Shane interrupted with an exaggerated clap of his hands. “I think we should hit the showers.” He just about resisted the urge to glower as his own mother shared an amused look with Ilya, acting like they’d known each other for way longer than five minutes. “Right Rozanov?”
“Right.” Ilya conceded. “It was lovely to meet you Yuna, I will now let your son drag me away.”
He resolutely did not drag him away (firstly, because he wouldn’t be able to if he tried, secondly, because that would involve touching him and he was not dealing with that right now), but Ilya followed after him anyways (not before cheerily waving goodbye over his shoulder).
Their assigned motorhomes were practically side by side, but Shane didn’t question why Rozanov was still right on his heels until they reached the front door of his.
He turned to him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. “Did you need anything?”
“Are you not going to invite me in? I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite.”
Shane’s mind went blank, neurones short-circuiting badly enough he couldn’t come up with a cheeky answer.
Why would he even want to go into his motorhome? Did he want to continue talking?
Or - his traitorous mind suggested - did he want some other thing?
Did Shane want some other thing?
He would be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. About trying things out with other men, yes, but doing it with Ilya Rozanov specifically.
Ever since he’d laid eyes on him he felt some inexplicable pull towards the Russian man, the mere sight of him enough to send his heart into a mad rush.
It was such a stupid idea. A stupid, bad, reckless idea.
And yet.
He walked up the short staircase without another word, gently pushing the door open and holding it so it stayed like that.
Ilya immediately looked like the cat who got the cream, gingerly following him up and sending shivers running down his spine as he brushed past him, his body leaning into his personal space more than was necessary.
Shane tried not to focus on the absurdity of the situation. Of him, standing in his Montreal x Red Bull jersey, a 24 splayed across his back.
Of the place they were still in, surrounded by the camera crew, production workers, Red Bull employees and his own mother, somewhere that was technically their place of work, even if just for the day.
And of Rozanov, standing in front of him with his race suit half unzipped, the number 81 boldly plastered on his back, and a knowing stare that wouldn’t leave his face.
“Do you… do you want to sit?” Shane meekly asked, throat bobbing with a gulp he was sure could be heard from outside the room as Ilya stepped closer, much like he had at the start of their shoot.
Except now he didn’t stop, instead bringing strong hands up to his waist and using the leverage to press him up against the wall.
He just about bit back a moan.
“No,” Ilya hummed, hot breath fanning across his face. “I prefer to stand.”
Shane’s heart was just about ready to beat out of his chest, blood rushing upwards and downwards as if it had forgotten where it was supposed to go.
Slowly, giving him a chance to move away, Rozanov leaned in.
It was only polite that he met him in the middle.
The moment their lips met, he couldn’t hold back a moan, all of his senses reduced to that feeling of wet, delightful heat.
And Shane always thought he wasn’t one for kissing, not detesting the feeling whenever he kissed his (only) girlfriend but not actively enjoying it either.
Apparently this was a day for many revelations.
His hands went up to Ilya’s curls on instinct alone, his body fully surrendering to the urge he’d felt many times before to grip, tug and tangle.
When Ilya moaned into his mouth he could swear he saw God for one single second.
They were pressed so close together it’d be hard to tell where one ended and the other began, the friction of their crotches rubbing together tearing gasp after gasp out of his throat.
Ilya took advantage of that by absolutely devouring his mouth, licking into him like he was tracing patterns with his tongue, mapping out every inch he could reach.
“Fuck Hollander,” Ilya panted, accent thicker than he’d ever heard it. “Who taught you to kiss like that?”
He almost went weak at the knees at the indirect praise, cock twitching inside his pants.
“I don’t know.” He answered, lamely, but unable to overthink it from the sheer arousal that clouded every and any thought.
The other man made an amused little sound, going back in to press kisses up his neck, along his jaw, leaving him to chase after his lips and then pout when he pulled away.
“Figures you’d be a natural at this too.” He chuckled, bringing one hand up to his cup jaw and lightly caressed over where his mouth had already passed. “Is this your first time? With a man?”
Shane nodded, a bit bashful, clearing his throat and averting his eyes from those pools of blue that now were as deep as the colour of his race suit.
“Is it yours?” He asked, needing to steer the conversation to more neutral grounds.
Grounds where he didn’t need to think about his newfound praise kink.
“No.” Ilya admitted. “European men are more open to experiment,” He smirked. “Even in the world of motorsport.”
That gave him pause.
“Was it another driver?”
And listen, Shane didn’t mean to sound so disbelieving. It was just that the thought of entrusting anyone from the NHL or the hockey industry in its entirety was unfathomable to him, as ludicrous as it could get.
He would never get involved in something so messy, he was sure of it.
Because while this could be considered reckless, especially by his standards, it was contained enough that Shane didn’t feel the need to panic about it (yet).
Rozanov was a famous Formula 1 driver who had arguably more to lose than he did. He spent the better part of the year travelling around the world, not stepping foot in Canada for more than one week a year. They were sufficiently separated by life and work and overall circumstances that he had no reason to believe this would be more than a one time thing.
None at all.
“You ask too many questions.” Ilya complained, getting him out of his head and back to the present moment simply by moving his grip to his chin, pressing a single, hard kiss against his lips. “And you have proved to have very talented mouth,” his tone was entirely too suggestive, and any coherent thought he might’ve had flew right back out the window. “I’d like to see what else it can do.”
With that unspoken invitation, Shane promptly dropped to his knees.
Being with another man was everything and nothing like Shane had imagined.
Everything, because he could use his self-knowledge and transfer it to someone else.
A twist of the hand, a flick of the tongue, a gentle squeeze to the balls that tore a guttural moan from his throat.
And nothing, because it was more instinctive than he had thought.
With women, every time he tried something new it felt like this daunting task, like he was about to sit a test he hadn’t studied for, in a language he couldn’t speak.
But with men, that trepidation felt more like excitement, and it was easier to get lost in the moment without giving in to the need to plan ahead.
Or maybe - maybe that was just Ilya. With his guiding hands, murmured praises and soft commands in accented English that integrated more and more Russian the longer Shane blew him, until he pushed him off and spilled into his hand with a punched-out groan.
When Rozanov pushed him towards the couch to return the favour, Shane nearly came at the sight of that head of curls between his legs.
He was sure that Ilya must have overstated his talent, because there was no way his first attempt could compare to how mind blowing it was to have his cock sucked by him.
Shane didn’t even try to fight it as he came down his throat embarrassingly quickly, something that, judging by Rozanov’s smug little smirk, hadn’t gone unnoticed.
But even then, as good as the sex was, Shane couldn’t have enough of his lips, fully unbothered by the salty taste on Ilya’s tongue as they kissed, lazy, both of them completely spent.
“Not bad, huh?” Rozanov teased, all but breathing the words into his open mouth.
Shane rolled his eyes in faux annoyance, although his heaving chest and the way he still chased after his lips probably gave him away.
It was intoxicating, he felt like a man who’d been dying of thirst and was suddenly given access to a stream of fresh water, wanting nothing more than to sink into Ilya and drown.
Of course, he just answered with. “Fuck you.”
“Yes, but maybe next time.”
Shane’s brain short-circuited so badly he didn’t even react to his unintended double entendre.
“… next time?”
Rozanov nodded, the picture of nonchalance.
“Da. We have Grand Prix in Montreal every year, more sponsor obligations. Maybe you could come to a race.”
And Shane - well, Shane didn’t know what to fucking think.
He was only saying that to be nice, he reasoned, because not even the infamous Ilya Rozanov was such an asshole as to sleep (or, well, just do stuff) with someone and walk out without a word.
They would probably never see each other again, and this would only stay as a nice memory he could pull out during nights when he needed some release.
Yes, he concluded, Rozanov was only trying to be a gentleman. And as unexpected as that was, Shane kinda appreciated the effort.
“Uh… yeah, yeah for sure.” He gulped, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d like that.”
“Okay, good.” Ilya smirked, pressing a short, hard kiss against his lips before getting up to collect his clothes.
Shane watched him walk around the small room, and though it must have been minutes since he came he felt his dick twitch in interest as he closely inspected Rozanov’s every move, cataloguing the way his back muscles stretched when he slid on his shirt, how his tight briefs sinfully hugged his impossibly round ass.
God, and here he’d thought the arousing part would be taking his clothes off.
He busied himself with pulling on his own underwear to stop staring like an absolute creep, awkwardly crossing his arms while he waited for Rozanov, unsure as to what was the correct protocol after encounters like this.
When the driver was fully dressed, he turned towards the door, but then seemed to think better of it and went back over to Shane, eyes darting to the small coffee table.
“Is that your phone?”
“Uhhh yes.”
“Can I have it?”
Perhaps Shane should be more worried about how easy it was to follow Rozanov’s every command, as he didn’t even hesitate before reaching for the phone and clumsily typing in the password with his sweaty fingers.
“What do you want it for?”
Ilya looked at him like he was dumb. “To call Horner and tell him about my day. Obviously to put in my number.”
“Are you sure that’s smart?” He retorted, purposefully ignoring his infuriating sarcasm. “What if someone sees my name on your phone, or steals it and -“
“Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring.” Rozanov deadpanned, snatching the phone from him and tapping away for a few seconds, forehead creasing with concentration. “There.”
Shane hesitantly took his phone back, and couldn’t help but huff out a laugh at what he saw on the small screen.
“Lily?” He asked, amusement colouring his voice. “And what’s my name going to be?”
Ilya licked his lips, getting out his phone from whatever hidden pocket the race suit apparently had to presumably save his contact before turning the screen around so he could see.
“Jane.”
No one would ever be able to waterboard this out of Shane, but he felt a shiver run down his spine at how similar their names sounded when curling around Rozanov’s tongue. And what a tongue it was.
After pocketing his phone, Rozanov finally pulled open the door, giving him one last look over his shoulder with a half-smile.
“See you Hollander.”
“Bye Rozanov.”
And with that, he went down the stairs, the door shutting firmly behind him.
Shane made his way back to the couch in a daze, letting himself fall over the slightly sticky surface (ew) and not finding it in himself to be bothered by the feel of it.
Instead, all he could think about was icy blue eyes staring up at him, big, strong hands firmly grasping his thighs, and the texture of thick curls that tangled between his fingers.
He let his head fall back, closing his eyes in what could only be described as despair.
“… fuck.”
2010 (December)
Ilya Rozanov was gripping his steering wheel so hard he thought they’d have to pry his fingers open.
He was gasping for air, barely able to keep the car straight as he waited for the words that would make him or break him.
“Wiebe?”
His voice was raspy, more a gasp than an actual word, and he didn’t understand how they didn’t know yet when it felt like literal hours had passed. Days, even.
“You were perfect Ilya, perfect.” Wiebe’s voice crackled through the radio, the slight quiver to it making Ilya’s fingers get impossibly tighter. “I need for the others to cross the line, okay? But it’s looking good.”
It was near impossible to stop himself from saying anything else, biting his lip so hard he tasted the metallic tang of blood mixed in with his sweat.
Because he knew he had been perfect, he’d won the damn race, fought tooth and nail for 58 laps to come out on top while ignoring how so many things were out of his control.
One of the things he loved most about Formula 1 was how unpredictable it could get, how you could leave it all out on the track and still be unable to clinch the victory they all craved with incomparable intensity.
They called them “modern gladiators”, and Ilya made sure to live up to that name.
However, that unpredictability he loved so much could also be the root for the most bitter of heartbreaks.
“You just wait sunshine,” Wiebe reassured, softer than he had any reason to be, the invisible link that connected driver to race engineer feeling stronger than ever, “you just wait.”
But Ilya had never been good at waiting.
He jumped at the first opportunity to leave Russia after his mother’s passing, uncaring that it came from a motorsport recruiter rather than a hockey one as he had always expected.
He took to driving karts like a fish to water, quick to put the pedal to the metal and barely touch his brakes, learning more from the crashes this caused than he would have by being cautious.
He fell hard and fast for the adrenaline that came with the speed, throwing himself head first into what he knew to be his life’s calling.
He was one of the youngest drivers ever to get to Formula 2, and he was the youngest to win it.
When Formula 1 came calling, he answered, and when he saw his chance to actually fight for a championship he barely hesitated before changing teams.
He knew he wanted to know everything about Shane Hollander the second he opened that bathroom door in Los Angeles.
He moved a few strings with his press officer to ensure he’d be included in the photoshoot he’d signed on to do in Montreal.
And it took just one lingering look he caught from Hollander, those big brown eyes swiftly fluttering from his eyes to his lips, to decide he would follow him into his motorhome.
He fell - he fell into bed with him, no matter how bad of an idea it was on paper. And he didn’t leave without his phone number, something that could bind them through the mess that were timezones and frontiers.
Ilya Rozanov made a living by being fast, the fastest man out of twenty. Patience wasn’t worth a damn in his line of work, not for him.
So, every breath he took without knowing whether he had done it, whether he had actually conquered his lifelong dream, felt like torture.
“Wiebe.”
“Hamilton P2, Button P3.” He informed, the knot in Ilya’s stomach tightening by the second. “There’s another two cars coming in 15 and 16, we just need those two. Just those two cars.” It didn’t register at that moment but Ilya actually snarled at that, a sound that would be immortalised in Formula 1 history. “I think you’ll like it.”
Fuck it, Ilya thought, taking one hand of the wheel to grip at his necklace, very much willing to deal with any sort of fine if it meant feeling his mother close to him in what could be the defining moment of his career.
“Rosberg P4. Kubica…”
It was at that point that he understood what people meant when they said time seemed to stop sometimes, when they were on the brink of something meaningful, of something they would never forget.
Ilya felt as though the very air stood still, the noise of the engine fading away, the lights of Yas Marina circuit that shone almost unbearably bright at night nothing but blurs that barely penetrated his tunnel vision.
“Kubica P5. Ты чемпион мира! Ilya Rozanov you are World Champion!”
All of the breath rushed out of his lungs in a gasp, head falling forward for a single, dizzying moment. Through the ringing in his ears and the screams coming through his radio he barely noticed when he started crying. Ugly, pathetic whimpers that would no doubt make his father and his brother sneer in disgust.
Except that they weren’t here, his P.O. Alana had made sure they weren’t, and they could go fuck themselves for all he cared. He was a Formula 1 World Champion.
He only let go of the necklace to press the radio button, not even bothering to steady his voice as the words poured from his mouth.
“Thank you boys.” He sobbed, furiously wiping at his eyes so he could see the road ahead. “Thank you. You are amazing. I love you.” His entire body was trembling with an emotion he could not name, and now he did have to put both hands back on the wheel to keep his beautiful, beautiful car steady. “I need a moment.”
That was when he allowed himself to picture his mother’s smile, her eyes how he remembered them in his fondest of memories, not cold and vacant, but warm and full of life. The way she had always looked at him when he was a child.
Ilya was not a particularly religious person, but he hoped that wherever it was his mother had ended up - and he was sure it was somewhere nice - she was looking down at him with that same smile.
“Thank you mama. I love you, I miss you, I hope I made you proud. I wish you were here.” He murmured in his mother tongue, almost as if he was reciting a litany, looking up at the fireworks lighting up the night sky and finally letting a smile split his face, his cheeks hurting from the stretch of his sweat-soaked skin.
“Okay. This is first and last time I cry.” Ilya said when he switched back to English, letting out a wet laugh when he noticed Lewis’s car driving right next to him, his friend waving a hand in what he knew to be a sign of congratulation. He waved back, unbelievably grateful for everything this sport had given him after life had taken so much from him.
Wiebe’s laughter drifted through the comms, and Ilya could easily picture the glee in his dearest partner’s face. “Well Ilya, let’s not forget you are the youngest World Champion in Formula 1 history. I think you’re allowed to cry, you’re allowed mate.”
That sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down his face, and as everyone expected he ignored every and all indication to not do donuts to do just that right back at the finish line, holding his index finger up as the car turned in perfect circles, smoke and the scent of burnt rubber floating up into the air.
As soon as he brought the car to parc fermé he was ripping of his seatbelts and jumping out the car, dropping to his knees to make a reverence at this beautiful piece of machinery that had been with him every step of the way, car and man finally on top of the world. Together.
Jumping into the waiting arms of his team felt a whole lot like coming home, accepting the aggressive pats to his back as the sign of adoration that they were, and hoping he’d been good enough at showing how much he appreciated every single one of them for the support they’d given him throughout the season, even when he wasn’t sure he had faith in himself.
He was sure he looked a mess when he finally took off his helmet, passing it to God knows who before being enveloped by a crushing hug from Wiebe, the engineer peppering the top of his sweaty hair with as many kisses as he could land.
“You absolute fucking beauty, I knew you could do it. There was not a single doubt in my mind!”
Ilya laughed, delirious, burying his face in the older man’s neck and allowing himself to be lifted by the waist for a few seconds.
“Couldn’t have done it without you. Never in my life.”
He knew they both probably looked ridiculous like this, a 6’ man frantically hugging a 6’3 man with wide, teary eyes and psychotically large smiles, but he couldn’t care less.
After that it was all a blur.
He was aware of Horner pulling him into a pseudo-fatherly embrace and saying something about how proud he was of him. Of Helmut firmly clasping his shoulder and giving him an approving nod.
He also remembered Svetlana breaking through the crowd and jumping into his arms, smacking a kiss to his cheek and cradling his face with gentle hands.
(“I am so proud of you Ilyusha, there is nothing you cannot conquer. Aunt Irina would be so proud.” She had said, staring straight into his eyes so he couldn’t possibly doubt the honesty in her words. It meant so much more than anything Horner or Marko could have said.)
Then there was Lewis and Anthony, both Hamiltons giving him firm hugs and affectionate smiles, Ilya’s heart swelling with emotion at knowing he’d always have the support of the only father and brother figures he’d ever known despite how hard the competition could get.
(“I always knew you were going to be a champion kid, you were born to blow us all away.” Anthony declared, briefly touching his forehead to Ilya’s in a gesture that made him more emotional than he could admit.
“So did I.” Lewis admitted, playfully bumping his shoulder with his. “But don’t get used to it punk, I’ll get you next year.”
Ilya snorted, shaking his head like a wet dog and laughing with Anthony when it made his son yelp and quickly run away.)
Most of the other drivers also came to congratulate him, some looking genuinely happy for him (like Kubica, Button and Rubens), and others like they’d swallowed a lemon (like Webber, Alonso and Petrov).
He remembered crying when the Russian National Anthem blared through the speakers, the conflicting emotions he felt towards Mother Russia forgotten for a few precious moments, and holding the trophy as high up as he could in tribute to his beautiful mother.
Sharing the podium with Lewis and Jenson would forever be one of his favourite memories, he was sure of it, with both Brits emptying their champagne bottles over his head as he tilted it back with his mouth wide open, arms fully extended to his sides like he was a god receiving offerings from his disciples.
Later, when he had taken more pictures than he could count, hugged what felt like every single person from his team, and shook hands with more unknown rich people than he ever wanted to get acquainted with, he finally got a moment to breathe in his driver’s room (although he was under strict instructions to take a five minute shower and get ready to head out and break every single alcohol-related law that existed in the United Arab Emirates).
Still, he took a moment to himself. Sitting on the worn out couch and staring at the Championship trophy until he was sure he had it committed to memory. The physical representation of all his hard work at arm’s reach.
It wasn’t until then that he remembered he had a phone, and although he wasn’t quite expecting a myriad of texts from loved ones he did not have, he was surprised to see he did have a couple of notifications waiting to be read.
When he opened the first one, a much softer smile graced his lips.
Jane:
Congratulations Rozanov, that was impressive. And very well deserved.
I’m just glad it wasn’t Alonso
Ilya huffed out a laugh, resolutely ignoring the sheer wonder he’d felt at the fact that Shane Hollander had watched him win. That he’d cared enough to text him about it.
Lily:
Thank you Hollander, I told you I was very impressive
And not just in bed ;)
The reply came much quicker than he was expecting.
Jane:
Christ, I have no idea how we will all deal with your ego now that you’ve actually won
It was already big enough before
Lily:
Also not the only thing that is big about me, as you know ;)
Jane:
Fuck off
But seriously congratulations, maybe I will have to go to the Montreal race next year
Only if you promise to win again, I only support champions
If Ilya had thought he couldn’t possibly feel giddier, he was sorely mistaken.
Lily:
Oh you know I will, only one championship is for losers I cannot stay like this
You better catch up, zero championships is still worse than just one championship
Jane:
Don’t worry, I plan to
A series of unnecessarily loud knocks and various loud voices let him know his alone time was up, but when he pocketed his phone he felt lighter than he’d ever felt before, an unfamiliar calm falling over him like a blanket even as he opened the door and was promptly swallowed back into a sea of noise and chaos.
This really was what being on top of the world felt like, and he knew he never wanted to come down.
(At least, not unless there was a pair of soft brown eyes waiting down there for him).