Work Text:
Ilya Rozanov pays attention.
He pays attention to the puck, the crowd, where the other players are, where his next opening might be. He had paid attention to the cold on his face, the building shielding him from the worst of it, the no smoking sign behind him, and he’s currently paying attention to the cigarette in his mouth and the fact that his fucking lighter isn’t working.
He does not pay attention to the footsteps approaching him. He registers the sound, but he does not pay attention.
“Ilya Rozanov?” The man reaches for a handshake, which Ilya accepts. “Shane Hollander. I, uh, thought I’d introduce myself.”
Shane Hollander. He would know that name even if he didn’t pay attention. That’s how much talk there’s been. Much talk about him as a hockey player, and much talk about him as a person. Some of these words are words people use to describe Ilya as well. Serious. Power forward. Rising star. Generational talent. Others are words not used to describe Ilya. Shy. Antisocial. Robot. Mixed race. Others that follow, but Ilya doesn’t know these words. They give him the same feeling he gets when his brother calls him a faggot.
Hollander is talking again. Ilya doesn’t catch all of what he says, but he understands most of it. Something about not smoking here. Whatever. His lighter finally catches. He acknowledges the statement, but makes no move to put out the cigarette.
“You’re an awesome player to watch.”
This, Ilya understands better. He’s used to compliments from peers. Teammates. Fans. Press. Not opponents. Opponents want nothing to do with him unless it involves getting fists in his face. A compliment from an opponent is new. He acknowledges again, using a different word this time. Maybe a better one, maybe not. It’s hard to find the right words in this new language.
Hollander turns away, as if to leave, then leans against the wall instead. Silence. Apparently, Hollander changes his mind quite quickly, and makes to leave again.
“Anyways. I– I should go. They’re waiting for me. But, um, good luck in the tournament.” He reaches out a hand again, and Ilya pays attention to the feeling of himself smiling as he shakes it. Hollander turns and begins to walk away.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
It’s the softest chirp Ilya can imagine, but based on everything else about Hollander, he might not even handle this one very well. Ilya expects Hollander to flinch, then keep walking. Maybe mumble out an awkward response. What he doesn’t expect is for Hollander to face him head on, smiling.
“That’s not gonna happen.”
He takes it on the chin, almost laughing as he responds. Instead of being in control, Ilya is the one being caught off guard. Within these couple minutes, Hollander has established himself as something new. A competitor. An equal. Something Ilya has not had in a very long time. It takes him a moment to find his voice again.
“See you in final.”
Hollander waves, then turns, and then he’s gone. Ilya feels something. It’s not unlike his lighter finally catching. It’s small, but it’s not nothing.
Shane Hollander has his attention.