Chapter Text
It’s been a week since Ilya had last seen Shane. Since he had asked him to go away. Since he had told him that they weren’t anything. Not here.
Ilya Rozanov was starting to suspect that he was a liar. Because it didn’t feel like nothing. They didn’t feel like nothing. Not anymore.
He had read somewhere that people got attached after they slept together because of the rush of oxytocin or whatever. That that was why so many girls and boys would think that they were together after he had slept with them. But he had never felt like that himself. Had never felt the need to go back to whoever he had slept with, to think about them long after the sheets had gone cold. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if what he had read was true or not but he had suspected it might just be a myth because of this very reason. Ilya Rozanov didn’t fuck and get attached.
Until Shane Hollander.
Which is precisely why he had told him to leave. Because they were nothing. Not here.
Not in Russia. Never in Russia. He didn’t want Russia to taint Shane. He wanted to keep him separate from Russia and all that it stood for. Shane had been a glimpse of golden light in his life and the idea that Russia — bleak and gray and ruinous of anything Ilya had ever held dear — might get its paws on him had left him reeling. So no. They were nothing. If that was what kept Shane aureate then so be it. Ilya was used to being seen as a dick anyway.
Except, for some reason, it mattered to him what Shane thought. It mattered to him that Shane had never really meant it when he’d called him an asshole, that he had always treated Ilya as Ilya rather than as the foulmouthed, chirping Russian whose body checks were just on the wrong side of brutal. Until now, he guesses. Which was exactly the problem.
The other problem was that Russia was already out of the Olympics, at least in men’s hockey. Their defeat had been loud and vicious and Ilya’s father had not failed to let his opinions on Ilya’s loss known. As if being out of the running for a medal wasn’t bad enough it meant that Ilya had plenty of time to himself and he had spent roughly 80% of that time thinking about Shane Hollander’s expression when he had let those words tumble out of his mouth and leave their mark on Shane.
We are not anything. Not here.
Fuck.
He had to do something about this.
He looks down on his phone, desperate to find something to distract him. His eyes are immediately drawn to the time and date on his screen which is when he realises.
Oh.
That’s today.
Ilya bites his lip. He shouldn’t. Should he? It would be stupid.
So, so stupid.
And dangerous.
Incredibly dangerous. Especially now that his father was watching him like a hawk.
He shouldn’t do it.
He really, truly shouldn’t.
Ilya sighs.
He gets up.
He's absolutely doing it.
Nobody’s ever accused him of being smart anyway.
❄︎
Shane’s feet are absolutely aching.
He has spent most of the day walking around the Olympic Village with Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughan and he had stupidly chosen to wear the pair of Reebok sneakers his mom insisted he use. Those shoes were not made for an entire day of walking.
He had a fun day, he’ll admit that much. Scott and Carter are good company, his team is doing well for now and so he can relax for a bit and the February sun has been out all day, which has felt like a blessing in an otherwise mostly grey Russia.
It was Valentine’s Day today so the entire Village had been covered in red and pink and hearts everywhere as far as the eye could see. Carter had joked that because they were all single they could be each other’s Valentine’s. Shane had laughed along but he had been touched. He’d never had a Valentine before. Not even as a friend. Not even as a joke.
So yeah, their Valentine's Day had been nice. They’d had heartshaped waffles for breakfast (Shane’s with a tiny amount of maple syrup, no butter and Scott and Carter’s with Nutella and strawberries) then watched some figure skating before spending the rest of the day walking and talking. But now Shane felt like he was dead on his feet and couldn’t wait to spend the rest of the evening in bed. The bed that was just on the other side of the door.
Shane’s sharing a room with Nick Chouinard, who usually plays for Ottawa. It’s been weird sharing a room with someone other than Hayden but Shane thinks they’ve been doing well. Maybe Nick doesn’t fold his clothes or do hospital corners but he keeps his side neat and Shane’s grateful for that. He is less grateful for the cardboard box-like beds. They’re hard and lumpy and uncomfortable but still they’re the only thing Shane can think of as he’s pressing the keycard against his door and turning the handle.
The room is empty, just as Shane expects it to be. Nick had told him that his girlfriend, Selena, was visiting and that they were going to be spending the night together tonight so Shane shouldn’t expect him back until tomorrow. He had said this while winking, heavily indicating that Shane would have the room to himself in case he wanted to bring a girl back.
Shane very much did not want to bring a girl back.
He did, however, want to kick his shoes off and crawl into bed. Which is exactly what he does as soon as the door has closed behind him.
Ugh. What a relief. He toes his socks off and almost sighs at the feeling of freedom he feels after having his poor feet stuck in sneakers all day.
He looks around, taking the room in. There’s not much to take in, if he’s being honest. It’s just the two beds, covered in white and blue duvets and a bedside table each for him and Nick. It’s spacious though, he’ll give them that. Some of the older guys on the team who had participated in the last Winter Olympics had told him the size of these rooms were much better than what they’d had in Vancouver. Apparently there they’d only gotten one bedside table to share. Shane was glad he didn’t have to share.
He’s just about to close his eyes when there’s a knock on his door.
Shane’s eyes fly open.
Who could that be?
Maybe Scott or Carter had forgotten something? Or maybe he had and they were kind enough to bring it back? Or maybe it was one of his teammates, asking to hang out?
He really doesn’t feel like hanging out with anyone. But he feels bad ignoring whoever is on the other side of the door, too.
He sighs.
Before he has time to talk himself out of it he’s putting his feet down on the cold ground and limping back to the door. But when he opens there’s nobody there.
Huh. Strange.
Shane looks up and down the corridor, trying to see if somebody is pulling a prank on him but he can’t see anyone anywhere. The hallway is empty.
What the fuck?
He’s about to close the door when he happens to glance down and sees a package there.
Okay. Weird.
Even weirder, his name is scrawled on top of the package in a completely ineligible chicken scratch sort of handwriting.
It’s not very big, the package. He picks it up easily and it’s not heavy either. He pulls it against his chest, closes the door behind him and drops the package onto his bed before sitting down again, one leg tucked under him as the other stretches out toward the floor.
He watches the package for a moment, as if afraid something will jump out of it. When nothing does he finds the end of the tape and starts scraping at it with his fingernails until enough comes off for him to pull it clean off the cardboard box. It makes a satisfying sound and Shane rolls the tape between the palms of his hands until it resembles a ball. He proceeds to shoot the tape-ball at the trashcan. He scores.
Turning back to the package he takes a look inside. His heart almost stops at its contents.
Ginger ale.
An entire pack of it.
He’s spent the past week trying to find some with no luck. He’d even complained about it to whoever was near him; his teammates, his friends in other sports, Scott and Carter. Even his parents on the phone one time. But nobody had seen any either in the Village or Sochi in general. Which sucked because Shane wasn’t drinking during the Olympics and sometimes, he needed something other than water to take the edge off. Which he realises sounds juvenile and stupid but it is the truth.
He takes the package out, sets it on the bedside table. Under it there’s more. There’s three chocolate-flavoured protein bars from the brand that Shane uses, a keyring of a tiny Snoopy holding a hockey stick and an honest to God Valentine’s Day card.
Or, at least that’s what Shane thinks it’s supposed to be.
The front of it is covered in pink hearts and red kisses and the outline of a heart with an arrow through it in shiny silver. When he opens it there’s only one word inside.
Sorry.
No name. No signature. Not anything other than that one word.
Sorry.
He’s not sure who it could be from. His stupid, treacherous heart thinks of Ilya immediately but he dismisses that thought quickly. Ilya had made it clear that they were not anything.
His mom, maybe? When he was a kid she’d always bought him something nice for Valentine’s. Some chocolate. New tape for his sticks. Small things but very much appreciated nonetheless. But why would his mom be apologising? That made no sense.
Was there anyone who needed to apologise to him at all?
Not that he could think of.
Was it a joke? A prank? Had Scott and Carter kept him out of his room all day only for some other mysterious person to enact this weird gag? Was it psychological warfare by Team USA?
No. That didn’t feel right either.
As he thinks, he takes one of the cans of ginger ale out of the pack and cracks it open, practically gulping its contents down. Once he’s satisfied he stands up, puts the rest of the cans under his bedside table, the box on the floor next to his bed. He sets his almost-empty can down and picks the little Snoopy up, inspecting it.
It was a really weird prank, if it was a prank at all. What in the world would the Snoopy even mean? Or was it chosen because of the hockey stick only? Was it some kind of dig against him? Snoopy as a character was known for being lazy. Was somebody calling him lazy?
He didn’t feel lazy. But maybe he could work harder? Get up earlier, train while he could instead of walking around with the men who were meant to be his enemies for right now?
He stares at Snoopy as if Snoopy is holding the answers to all of the questions going round and round in his head. Snoopy stares back. He says nothing.
Eventually, Shane sighs, sets Snoopy down next to the bed. He’ll put him on his keys tomorrow.
He’s not sure what to do with the card. He knows that if Nick or anyone else saw it he would need to answer a lot of questions he had no answers for so keeping it anywhere public was completely out of the question. In the end he puts it under his pillow. He’s sure he’ll wake up tomorrow long before Nick will be back. He’ll have time to put it away in his suitcase in the morning. But for now he wanted to keep it close to him.
He falls asleep feeling slightly confused but inexplicably warm.
It’s the best sleep he has during his entire time in Russia.