Chapter Text
September 2019
When Viktor Morozov was drafted by the Montreal Voyageurs, he had been glad. The team was amazing; he could even win a Cup during his rookie year. And he had heard good things about the city. There was only one problem: he was the only Russian on the roster, and his English wasn’t good.
He could make it through practice and games—though that part of the season hadn’t started yet—just fine. His English vocabulary was dominated by hockey-related words. But most of what was said in a locker room was lost to him. So, his first week in this new city was lonelier than he had ever been. He didn’t know anyone outside of the Voyageurs, and he couldn’t understand half of what those guys were saying. Maybe they had invited him to hang out and he hadn’t even realized.
The guys lingered in the locker room after practice today, laughing at jokes the others were telling. Viktor pulled his street clothes on slowly, struggling and failing to keep up with the conversation. Boiziau said something and started waiting for the others to respond. One by one, the guys said “yeah,” and “yes,” and “sure, man.” Viktor had no clue what was going on. So, he stayed quiet, like he had since training camp.
From across the dressing room, Hollander was watching him, eyebrows raised. Viktor finished tying his shoes and slung his bag over his shoulder. But Hollander got in his way before he made it outside.
“Your English—” Hollander said awkwardly, gesturing. He looked nervous, for some reason. Viktor hadn’t seen him like that before. He was always the calm and collected captain.
“Is bad. Yes.”
Then, Hollander said something involving “J.J.” that was too quick for Viktor to catch. Viktor just blinked at him and shrugged.
Hollander sighed. Viktor almost said something snarky to him about how hard he was trying and that Hollander didn’t need to give him shit for his language skills, but before he could think of the right words, Hollander said something that Viktor could understand.
“J.J. invited to club,” Hollander said in broken Russian. “Team goes. This weekend.”
Hollander spoke Russian? Or more accurately, bad Russian. Hollander’s accent was horrible. His grammar was wrong. But it was surprising nonetheless. Viktor’s mouth fell open. He didn’t even hide his shock.
Hollander didn’t seem to notice. He kept speaking. “You invited. Text J.J.”
“Ok,” Viktor said.
He had more questions for Hollander. Namely, why did he speak Russian? But before Viktor got a chance to ask, Hollander’s phone buzzed, and he excused himself.
Viktor glanced around the dressing room. No one else had seemed to notice. And he didn’t feel like mustering up the English words to ask why their captain spoke his language. At least now, he had a chance to get to know his teammates. He could text Boiziau about the club. Google translate made that easier than speaking.
* * * * * *
A week later, the Voyageurs’ social media manager had gathered the team to stockpile videos for Instagram, asking “easy questions.” Easy if they were in Russian. Viktor hoped the media team had printed out Russian translations of their questions for him. He didn’t want to embarrass himself.
Hollander had gone right before him. He was still taking his mic off a few feet from the set when Viktor received the first question. And his mind went blank. The English just went right over his head. When the question was repeated, he caught two words “favorite” and “Voyageur,” but the rest escaped him. It didn’t seem like a hard question, either. His English was just failing him today. He could probably guess what it meant, but if his answer was wrong…
“What is your favorite part of being a Voyageur?” Hollander said in Russian.
So that was the question. Viktor almost began to answer, when the social media manager started speaking rapidly to Hollander. His eyebrows were raised. He seemed surprised. Hollander was blushing, but the conversation ended with him nodding and taking his place behind the camera.
Viktor answered the question.
The next one, the social media manager asked in English, and Hollander quickly followed with the Russian translation. Hollander’s accent was still terrible. Viktor suspected that some of his translations were not exactly correct. But Viktor survived the interview.
“Thank you,” Viktor said as he took off his mic. He was going to ask Hollander more about his Russian, but Boiziau came into the room, laughing about something with a booming voice, clapping Hollander on the shoulder. Hollander left before Viktor could say anything else to him.
* * * * * *
Viktor got his chance to speak to Hollander on their first road trip to Ottawa. Pike was passed out, napping on the window seat next to Hollander, who was scrolling on his phone. The bus lurched over a pothole, but Pike didn’t stir. Viktor cleared his throat, and Hollander looked up. His cheeks were pink, like he had been blushing at whoever he was texting.
“Why do you speak Russian?” Viktor asked.
“Oh—uh—” Hollander’s eyes went wide. He fumbled with his phone. “I like learning languages?”
“So you pick Russian?” That didn’t make a lot of sense to Viktor. He loved his language, but it was hard for Canadians and Americans. Like English was hard for him. “Why?”
“I already speak French?” Hollander wheezed. That didn’t sound like a good answer. “Russian…lots of hockey players speak it.”
So, it was for hockey! Viktor knew that Hollander was dedicated to the game. No, dedicated wasn’t the right word. He was obsessed. More than any of the other guys on the team. Viktor didn’t need to understand what they were all saying to know that. So, Hollander learned Russian so that he could…listen in on the Russian players’ conversations? On their chirps?
And then, it all made sense. There was one player who this would be especially helpful with.
“Because of Rozanov,” Viktor nodded.
“What—” Hollander squeaked in English. “Nyet.” His eyes shifted around the bus wildly for a moment. His knuckles turned white. God, the rivalry really was real. He looked distraught just hearing Rozanov’s name.
“Nyet, I understand,” Viktor said. “You are big rivals. You want to know what he says on the ice.”
“Oh—” Hollander breathed. His stare came into focus. “Da…”
His voice trailed off, like he was looking for a word that he could not find. Viktor understood that feeling. It was nice to be on the other end of it, for once.
During that game against Ottawa, Viktor scored his first goal for the Voyageurs. His linemates crowded him against the boards, nearly knocking him over and patting his helmet. They were speaking in a flurry of excited English that Viktor wished he could understand. He was still too elated to care much.
He skated past the bench, beaming. As he fist bumped Hollander, the captain said, “nice goal.” Viktor knew those words in English, but he smiled harder all the same.
Later, Hollander and Rozanov battled for the puck close to the bench, just a meter from where Viktor was sitting. Rozanov shoved Hollander up against the boards, beaming. Hollander dove for the puck unsuccessfully.
“Nice try, moy pomidor,” Rozanov said, skating off with it.
What a weird chirp.
Maybe Rozanov realized that Hollander had learned Russian to try to get ahead of him, so he decided to fuck with him.
* * * * * *
After their first home game following the short road trip, Viktor approached Hollander in his stall.
“Do you have any restaurant recommendations in the city?” Viktor asked in Russian. He wanted to stop eating takeout, and he had a free evening tomorrow.
Hollander furrowed his brow, pausing.
“Recommendations?” Hollander repeated the word back to Viktor.
“Restaurant you like. For me to try.” Viktor said.
“Oh. I am…” Shane furrowed his brow. “Food green? Many…vegetables?”
“You are on a diet?” Viktor asked.
“Diet, da.” But Shane pulled out his phone and showed Viktor a few restaurants that he liked on google maps. Viktor thanked him.
Boiziau and Pike stared at Hollander, wide eyed.
“Man, when did you learn Russian?” Pike asked.
“Did you do that for Viktor?” J.J. said. “You’re too good, Capitaine.”
* * * * * *
The season continued like that. Viktor’s English got better every day, but Hollander was frequently there with Russian to save him when he needed it. Sometimes, Viktor sought Hollander out, just to have a short conversation where he, for once, had the linguistic upper hand. Even though Hollander kept to himself most of the time—other than when Pike and Boiziau were around—Hollander didn’t seem to mind practicing with Viktor. And his Russian was getting better too.
During an away game in Buffalo, Hollander returned to the bench after an unsuccessful power play, taking the spot next to Viktor. Viktor squirted a little too much water into his mouth. He hadn’t swallowed all of it by the time Hollander spoke.
“We really need to work on the anal play.” Hollander said.
The water shot out of Viktor’s mouth, covering the boards. Luckily, no one was in front of him.
“What?” Hollander’s eyes were wide. “What did I say?”
Viktor wasn’t sure he could provide Hollander with a helpful enough description—in Russian or in English. He thought about gesturing…
“Something sexual,” Viktor said. “You did not mean…”
“Fuck,” Hollander groaned, rubbing his red face. He slumped further into the bench, defeated. “I should have known not to trust him.”
Viktor wasn’t sure he was understanding Hollander right. He wished he would switch back to Russian.
“I wanted to say,” Hollander sighed. “We really need to work on the power play.”
Luckily, that was hockey, so Viktor understood. “You did not say that.”
“I know,” Hollander groaned again. Then, quietly, in English, “I am going to murder him.”
Viktor would have asked where Hollander had even learned that word—it definitely was not in Russian textbooks—when it was his time to get on the ice.
Hollander’s face stayed red for the rest of the game. Afterwards, Viktor caught him texting furiously.
* * * * * *
That December, the team hosted something called “Secret Santa.” They all drew names out of a hat and had to buy a gift for that guy. Viktor had spent a week stressing about what to get Comeau. He barely knew him, and Hollander wasn’t much help when he asked. He ended up settling on a gift card to a nice steakhouse.
They exchanged at the team’s Christmas party, lounging around Boiziau’s living room. Viktor was sitting in the corner of the couch, when Hollander approached him with a blue and gold bag. Hollander had apparently drawn Viktor’s name.
He opened the gift. It was a very nice Russian vodka that Viktor hadn’t been able to find in Montreal. The label reminded him of home.
“Spasibo,” he said.
It was a surprising gift, coming from Hollander. Viktor had never seen Hollander have a drop of alcohol, even he when went out with the team.
“You like vodka?” He asked.
“No, no,” Hollander seemed surprised by the suggestion. “It’s gross.”
“But you have good taste in vodka,” Viktor said. Hollander just shrugged.
* * * * * *
That January, the Voyaguers hosted a pride game. The team had the option of adding rainbow tape to their sticks during warm ups. Most of them did, more than Viktor had expected. He almost felt naked, with his regular tape on his stick, especially with all the rainbows everywhere in the arena. But he didn’t really get it, the whole pride thing. And even if he did, there was Russia.
Hollander didn’t look him in the eye that game, and he was terse with Viktor on the bench. Viktor didn’t think much of it. Hollander seemed like he was avoiding most of their teammates that night.
* * * * * *
The first game after Hollander’s press conference introducing his charity, Viktor cornered him in the locker room.
“You are friends with Ilya Rozanov?” He asked.
“Da,” Hollander said, adding something mumbled and half-English about the Allstar game.
“What is he like?” Viktor asked.
As a teenager, Rozanov had been his idol. Hell, he still was. Viktor didn’t know why Rozanov chose to get traded to such an awful team that summer, but he was still the best Russian hockey player out there.
Hollander’s face softened for a moment, before going back to his regular stoicism.
“He is…” Hollander furrowed his brows, searching for the right words. “He pretends to be an asshole. But he is not.”
* * * * * *
At practice as the regular season began to wind down, Viktor overheard Boiziau talking to Hollander. Viktor’s English had gotten good enough that he could understand a lot of what his teammates said in the locker room, even if he did prefer Russian.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you his number?” Boiziau asked Shane. “He’s a really nice guy. You should just go on one date and see if you like him.”
“I’m really ok, J.J.” Hollander said.
Viktor stopped tying his shoes. He froze, hunched over the bench in his stall. Hollander was gay? He glanced around at the other guys in the locker room, all putting their street clothes back on. Plenty of them were in earshot, but none of them reacted.
Viktor glanced back at Hollander. He was slinging his bag over his shoulder like nothing had happened. Viktor’s gaze shifted to the left, and he locked eyes with Pike. Pike was staring at Viktor, brow furrowed.
Then, Pike walked over and stood in front of Viktor’s stall.
“You have a problem, Morozov?” Pike asked. There was a warning in his voice.
“No,” Viktor said. “No problem.”
Pike nodded and left him alone.
So, Shane Hollander was gay. It was a hard thing to imagine. The captain didn’t fit Viktor’s image of what it meant to be gay. That word had mostly lived in his head as an insult that people threw around.
His first reaction was repulsion, like a reflex. That’s probably why he had stared. That’s definitely what Pike had seen on his face, and why he had come over.
But this was Shane Hollander. The only guy on the team that had understood Viktor for months. The only person he felt like he could talk to. Hollander had helped Viktor out too many times to count: translating interview questions, instructions from coaches, invites from teammates. He gave him as much advice on getting around in Montreal as he could. He was the best captain Viktor had ever had.
So, he decided that he didn’t care that Shane Hollander was gay. Viktor would have a gay friend.
* * * * * *
Viktor and Hollander kept chatting in Russian. As his second season on the Voyageurs began, he missed his summer in Russia. His English was good at this point, but it had been so nice not to need to think before every word he said.
They were on their first road trip, at an away game in Florida, when Viktor couldn’t sleep. He had a stupid American energy drink much too late in the day, so he was restless. He went down to the hotel’s basement to see if he could run on the treadmill for a bit—but the gym was locked. So, he decided to wander.
He found a stairwell at the end of the hall, but before he opened the door, he heard a familiar voice. Hollander.
“I miss you,” Hollander said.
“Just two weeks,” a man’s voice replied, sounding like it came from a phone. Viktor could just hear what he said. Hollander must have been close to the door.
The man had an accent, which was…familiar.
Russian. He must have been the real reason that Hollander had learned the language—or at least how he got somewhat good at it. Was this Hollander’s boyfriend?
Viktor hadn’t considered that Hollander might have a boyfriend. Gay, yes. But no boyfriend.
“Yuna and David invited me to watch your game with them. I do not play tomorrow night,” the man said. “So, I go and support second best hockey player.”
Had Viktor heard that right?
“Fuck you,” Hollander chuckled. He did not sound mad.
“When you get back,” the man leered. So, definitely Hollander’s lover. “I will bend you over and—”
“Ilya,” Hollander warned.
Ilya. Like Ilya Rozanov?
Viktor backed away from the door. That couldn’t be right. Ilya Rozanov, Viktor’s childhood idol. Ilya Rozanov, the famous playboy. Ilya Rozanov, Hollander’s sworn rival.
But suddenly, it all made sense. The man on the other end of the line seemed like he was also a hockey player—one that didn’t have a game tomorrow night. And then, there was Hollander and Rozanov’s charity. The way that Rozanov always chirped Hollander so strangely, sometimes with random Russian words that he used like terms of endearment. The fact that Hollander even spoke Russian at all. They were…something. Together, probably.
Viktor felt like he was losing his mind. He pinched himself. Nothing changed.
His captain was secretly dating Ilya Rozanov.
Viktor carried himself back to his room in shock, but there was no denying what he had heard. He paused at the door, keycard raised.
His thoughts never left Hollander and Rozanov. Their relationship—it was dangerous for Rozanov, very dangerous. And if the rest of the MLH found out about this, Viktor was sure there would be consequences for Hollander too. He wouldn’t say anything. Not even to Hollander. His captain’s secret was safe with him.
He unlocked the door.
“You good, Morozov?” His rookie roommate asked. Evidently, he had woken up.
“Da,” Viktor said. He went to bed without another word.