Chapter Text
Ottawa, Summer 2004
He didn't remember his first pair of ice skates. Or the fact that his mom held his hand those first few clumsy, slippery attempts. But he'll always remember the feeling of absolute autonomy on the ice once his body figured it out. It was so unlike being made to sit still in class, although he did well academically too, or running laps or doing sit-ups during gym. He could move without giving it much thought, in so many ways, and in any direction. He loved the speed, the sudden stops, the constant shifts in dynamic. His parents were thrilled he found something besides books and television to occupy him, and sensibly pushed him away from figure skating and towards hockey, a team sport, perfect for their quiet only son who needed to spend more time in group settings. So it was practice, and games, and different team events, and all the boys' and girls' birthdays. Well, some of the birthdays, Shane had always found those too loud and too messy. He never found hockey games too loud nor too messy.
From the age of eight Shane had attended summer hockey day camps. There were several to choose from close to home in Ottawa and by age ten they'd settled on a camp with a well-structured development program, with scholarships and partnerships that brought together a mix of coaches and kids from as far away as Finland and Russia. Two of the coaches had even been to the Olympics. His parents also always volunteered as host family to one of the participating boys. The past two summers they hosted a boy from France and one from a small town near Montreal. They spoke both English and French at home and wanted to make the two weeks away from their own families less stressful for the kids. There was the daily shuttling to and from camp but also pizza nights and back yard badminton and card games.
This summer it felt different from the start. Shane was thirteen. It was an awkward age. Some of the boys at hockey camp, and now they were only boys, no more co-ed practice at this age, were clearly getting taller, heavier, their voices sometimes breaking. There was a lot of teasing. Shane, who still hadn't really hit his growth spurt, was not nearly among the tallest but was, without a doubt and by far, the best player in his age group at camp. Quick thinking, smooth on the ice, excellent shooter.
Until the Russian kid arrived. His name was Ilya. And of course it was Shane's parents who were his host family.
He didn't look like serious competition. Shane's height, but frightfully skinny, pale, with a mess of dark-blond curls and a surly expression. The day he arrived the only word he managed was a quiet "okay". Shane introduced himself and got an "okay". They showed him the extra bedroom prepared for his stay, another "okay". Would he like hamburgers for dinner, "okay". Shane was sure his father was getting a Russian-English dictionary first thing next morning.
First day on the ice, and it was definitely not "okay". It was fantastic!
Ilya was almost as fast as Shane, but he played a very different style of hockey. Rough, offensive, with incredible timing, balance, and a wrist shot that kept smacking puck after puck into the goal. Like it was easy.
After years of playing at a level above everyone else, Shane had finally met his match.
Every face-off he got against Ilya he grinned like an idiot in anticipation of what challenge the Russian would perform this time around. Initially Ilya faced his grins with confusion. But by day two he smirked back. Oh, it was on! The coaches were quick to have them on separate teams as the couple of times they played together their almost instinctual assist-and-goal collaboration overran the others. Shane had never enjoyed playing with anyone like that. And it seemed Ilya was having fun too, making sure he followed up every goal with either a high five or a shoulder bump.
An exchange off the ice was not as easy. There were more English words than just the "okay", but not too many. And Ilya seemed withdrawn off the ice. Polite, quiet, nodding when Shane spoke, but closed off. They watched films in the living room, Shane always offering to let Ilya choose the DVD and Ilya repeatedly asking to watch "The Lord of the Rings" films. Shane didn't mind. He didn't really care what they watched as long as there was popcorn and Ilya's intensity next to him on the sofa. He watched, never taking his eyes off the screen, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't watching alone.
And there was another thing. The first time Shane heard it he was too nervous to go and investigate in the dark. But he was sure he'd heard Ilya crying late at night in the room next to his own.
So now for the past two nights, after the lights were off, he'd listen. And it happened again. Small noises, sniffles, sobs. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to tell his parents, embarrass Ilya. Was he homesick? Did he miss his family? Shane had never spent two weeks away from his parents and far away in another country where he spoke just a few words of the language and had none of his favorite foods. He'd probably cry, too.
They were well into the second week of hockey camp and the coaches were working on setting up a small last-day 3x3 tournament, matching the boys to even the playing field. Shane's team did well, as did Ilya's. It was clear it'd be them one against the other in the final and that first face-off Ilya grinned and winked at him! The nerve. It only pushed him to give his all.
Still, Ilya's team won. And Shane almost didn't mind. They'd be more hockey next week, next month, his coaches had already spoken to his parents about serious future plans. But it was unlikely he'd at any point travel to Russia and play either against or with Ilya. This he did mind, in a strange way.
After all the raucous that followed the trophies, the kids, the parents, the coaches, the good-byes, his parents took them home. There was pizza and ice cream and attempts in simple English to retell key moves on the ice and points won. Shane's mom offered to help Ilya pack but it was a "no, I am okay".
It had been an amazing day but now that it was coming to an end, now that Ilya's stay was coming to an end, Shane was feeling strangely uneasy. He prepared for bed as usual, brushed his teeth. He laid and listened.
No small noises or sobs. But then he heard footsteps, small steps in the hallway. And a door opened and shut, softly.
He got up and went to his own door, uncertain what to do. He wasn't afraid, but he also didn't really know what to do. Until he saw a small shift in light and shadow through the window of his room. It was Ilya. Leaning against the side of the garage with his back to the house. And... where does a thirteen year old get a cigarette?! Smoking was so bad for you!
So he grabbed his sneakers and taking care not to alert his parents who probably would have been disappointed in their guest, crept down the hallway to the door and very quietly slipped outside.
Once he got close enough to hear Ilya's shaky exhales he realized he was not just smoking, he was crying too. At that moment, too late for Shane to go back inside without being noticed, Ilya turned around and faced him. His eyes were wet and red, he rubbed the back of the hand that held the still lit cigarette against his runny nose. Then, his eyes never leaving Shane's, he took one more drag of the cigarette and during a slow exhale of smoke through his mouth, stubbed it out against the side of the garage, stuffed the butt into the pocket of his sweatpants and hugged himself with his arms. He looked lost. Nothing like his assertive self on the ice. He didn't say anything or move to go back to the house. And Shane didn't know what to do. For a while they just stayed looking at each other. It was a chilly night. Shane had long sleeves but Ilya was wearing only a T-shirt and was starting to shiver.
So he reached out, not giving it much thought, wrapped his hand around one of Ilya's wrists and pulled his crossed arms apart. "Okay?", he whispered as his hand slipped into Ilya's to hold and Ilya nodded. They walked back into the house and carefully down the hallway, still holding hands. Shane felt stupid and stubborn and tense. He pulled Ilya into his own room and pushed the door closed.
"You're freezing.", he kept his voice low.
"Yes.", Ilya shrugged and rolled his eyes.
"Come.", he let go of Ilya's hand and, without really thinking, walked to one side of the bed, pulling down the covers and gesturing to Ilya to get in on the other side. Which, after a beat, he did.
They lay next to each other under the warm covers, in the dark, their shoulders touching. Ilya smelled like smoke, and it should have bothered him but somehow it didn't.
Ilya sniffled, "I go back."
"Home, to your family?"
"Hm, family." Ilya said with a huff.
"You don't like your parents?", the thought had never occurred to Shane.
"Only father. No...", and barely audibly, "no mother." Ilya began to cry again and Shane felt like crying, too. So he turned towards the other boy and clumsily wrapped him in his arms, and pulled him until he was against his chest, Shane's face full of messy curls and kept him close, rubbing a hand against his shivering back until he calmed, until his breathing stopped stuttering, until he knew Ilya was asleep in his arms.
When Shane woke up the next morning he was alone in bed. There was breakfast, a ride to the airport and a brief, shy smile as they said their good-bys.
Would they run into each other again one day? Perhaps playing for their respective countries in the Olympics tournament? Shane hoped so.