Chapter Text
“Reason for travel?” the CATSA officer asked as Ilya slid his passport across the counter.
“Hockey.” Ilya grunted, rubbing his bloodshot eye. He hadn’t slept on the flight.
“Ilya Rozanov?” the officer’s eyebrows shot up, “Oh man, you do not have many fans here after you guys stole gold in the Junior Olympics last year.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Is okay.”
The officer’s lips quirked up. “And where is your accommodation?” he questioned.
Ilya shrugged. “Like place I stay?”
The officer nodded.
“I put rink. We get host family later.”
“Hmm… that should be okay for now.” The officer stamped his passport as Ilya let out a huge yawn. “You captain again for Russia?”
“Yes,” Ilya replied, already bored.
“Figures, my boys and I will be watching World Juniors. We’ll enjoy rooting against you,” the officer teased, handing the passport back.
“I’ll make it a good watch then.” Ilya grinned, a little more awake now.
“You take care and welcome to Ottawa.”
Ilya nodded and stepped away from the counter, juggling his duffel bag and backpack. His eyes were burning as he searched for the baggage claim symbol. His body’s lingering soreness from the tournament and his father’s subsequent disappointment had worsened after the long flight. He had to shift his duffel bag away from his bad shoulder and ribs.
While waiting for his hockey gear on the oversized carousel. Ilya took advantage to clean himself up in the bathroom. Looking in the mirror while he brushed his teeth, he winced at his reflection. His right eye was swollen shut, but it was still too fresh for the bruising to really settle in. He was surprised the officer hadn’t mentioned it like everyone else had. The flight stewardesses, his coach, the taxi driver. The officer probably thought it was just a hockey injury. He looked pale, tired, and a little gaunt; exactly as he felt.
When he emerged from the bathroom. His hockey gear seemed to be the only bag left on the carousel. It was held together with a lot of duct tape, he was surprised the zippers remained intact. He snatched the bag up, unsure who awaited him through customs and walked through the “Nothing to Declare” tunnel.
Immediately, the sounds of the airport flooded through him. People waving and shouting over the chaos looking for their loved ones after long travel days. His eyes snagged on an older woman clutching a boy to her soft sweater. It’s only been 4 years, but he was starting to forget how it felt to be held like that. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ilya scanned the signs looking for his name.
A tall man with a gray beard and hockey toque waved a sign with his name on it. He looked far too awake for whatever time it was. Ilya inwardly groaned as he stopped short in front of him.
“Rozanov! Nice to meet you. I’m Coach Weiss. I’m one of the organizers for World Juniors and I’ll be looking over a lot of the events you’re in for the next 3 months,” The coach explained. He reached out to pull the duffle bag off Ilya’s shoulder.
“Hello,” Ilya greeted, flinching away from the man’s advancing hand. If the coach was unsettled by it, he chose not to say anything. He had kind eyes, Ilya noticed.
“Alright. You are a few days late so you’re the last Russian to arrive, but today is the pick-up day for Team USA so we’ll be waiting around here for a few hours to collect them.”
Ilya’s heart sunk. He just wanted to go to bed and sleep away the soreness flooding his body.
“Okay,” Ilya said. The disappointment radiating from him.
“Okay!” Coach Weiss repeated brightly and clapped his hands. “Here’s the plan! We’re going to camp out in the Tim’s over there and get a few snacks while we wait for the boys. I can watch your stuff if you want to head to the bathroom.”
Ilya nodded and stalked over to a comfy looking sofa in the Tim Horton’s at the mouth of the arrivals gates. Coach Weiss rushed to catch up with him. Ilya all but threw his stuff down and plopped onto the couch. He let out a content sigh as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back.
He must have dozed off for a little bit because he startled awake when Coach Weiss loudly slapped something down on the table in front of him.
A bag of ice and two hot black coffees. Ilya decided that he liked Coach Weiss.
“Thank you.” Ilya said with a small smile. He grabbed the bag and pressed it into his right side against his ribs. The cold spread through his body, easing the edges of the pain. He took a big sip of the coffee and glanced up to see Coach Weiss staring at him intensely.
“The ice was for your eye.” The coach raised his eyebrow, scanning Ilya. “Are you injured?” He asked seriously.
Shit, Ilya thought. He should have been more careful, but he was so tired from the last few days. “No!” Ilya immediately withdrew the ice. “Just… sore? What is the hour?”
Coach Weiss did not look convinced. He informed him it was only 6:30 in the morning and stepped out to take a call.
Ilya thought it felt more like 22:00. He continued to sip his coffee as he waited. He was nervous, he realized. He did not know where he would be living for the next few months.
Coach Weiss reappeared, “New plan!” He started picking up Ilya’s backpack and duffle bag before Ilya had a chance to take it off him.
“Yes?” Ilya asked, confused. Coach Weiss waved him off as he tried to grab his bags back.
“You and I are heading to the rink. Coach Andrews kindly offered to pick up the boys. A few flights have been delayed and there’s no reason for us to wait around for hours,” Coach Weiss informed him happily.
Ilya looked at him suspiciously. “We can wait.” He couldn’t hold back the wince as he stood up from the table.
“Nah, and this way you can watch some of the practices. We’ve got a lot of paperwork to do and still need to settle things with your host family.” Coach Weiss turned on his heel and started walking.
Ilya scrambled to grab their coffees and his hockey bag.
“Ice!” Coach Weiss called over his shoulder. Ilya begrudgingly picked up the wet bag too.
Ilya was silent in the van and leaned against the window of the passenger seat. His breath rhythmically fogged up the glass. Coach Weiss caught his head bobbing more than once. Ilya was struggling to stay awake in the warmth of the van.
Coach Weiss was surprised by the kid he just collected from the international arrivals gate. From all the accounts he’d been told, he was expecting an exuberant, sarcastic hot-head. He had anticipated pushback at having to wait for the other boys and a list of demands. Instead it seemed he picked up a quiet, exhausted version of the boy that’s been on hockey’s hot-list since he was seven.
Focusing back on the road, he couldn’t help but think how much of a boy Rozanov still looked. A lot of kids at this age filled out, grew beards, and could easily be mistaken for mid-20s. Rozanov was tall, lean, and didn’t have a strand of peach fuzz. His face still had a boyish softness and mischievousness to it, but that might be attributed to the fact that half his face was swollen. He looked all of his 16 years of age and not a day older.
To say he was concerned would be an understatement. He knew Rozanov had just finished an intense tournament in Russia. It’s why he was the last of his team to arrive. He was not expecting him to be injured and to arrive without any kind of notice from his coaches or parents back in Russia. Coach Weiss felt good about his decision to take Ilya directly to get settled in. He would have felt guilty watching the exhausted boy sleep in the airport. It was good for Andrews to have more responsibility anyways.
“Do you need to call anyone to let them know you’re here?” Rozanov startled again at the sound of Coach Weiss’ voice. He blinked at him confused.
“No.” Rozanov said simply. Tucking the ice back into his side.
“Are you sure?” Coach Weiss pressed, glancing away from the road, “I don’t want an angry call from a hysterical mother ringing into the office.”
Rozanov's expression soured and he turned back to the window, “I said no.” He huffed.
Well then, Coach Weiss thought as he tried to focus on the icy road.
“Only 30 more minutes, are you feeling okay?” Rozanov didn’t reply or acknowledge he heard him.
When they arrived at the rink, Rozanov was out of the car before it even fully stopped. He was quick in grabbing all his bags from the back. Coach Weiss moved slowly, shutting the van door watching him. There was no way he was letting him play today. The kid was definitely injured and only had half his sight.
Rozanov rushed ahead of him, but paused in front of the glass doors. The rink was packed. This next month would consist of a lot of mixed training sessions and “bonding” activities for global sportsmanship. World Juniors was only set to start in December and would carry through to January. Which means Ottawa’s rinks had the privilege of hosting some of the biggest names (and egos) in youth hockey for around three months.
“C’mon.” Coach Weiss urged as he pressed the doors. The rink was extra busy for a Tuesday at 8 am. He watched Ilya’s expression as he took it in. There was no doubt that at 16 years old, Ilya has played at some of the best facilities in the world. Ilya still looked impressed by the lobby alone. This center was one of the most well-funded in Canada. There were 6 rinks for ice-hockey alone on the grounds.
“This way.” Coach Weiss guided Ilya who looked around dazed.
“To the locker rooms?” Ilya questioned.
Coach Weiss snorted, “No, the office.” The kid sure was eager to play.
Ilya couldn’t remember ever being more tired. This was the longest travel day he’s ever had. With all the connections, he’s pretty sure the trip from Moscow to Ottawa was over 26 hours. He was falling asleep in the hard plastic seat watching the Canadian team’s morning practice. They were practicing until 10:00 am and then Russia had this rink from 10:00 am to 2:00 pm.
His face was throbbing, his side was on fire, and if Ilya was honest with himself, he knew practice today would be a struggle. Even his hand was sore from all the paperwork he had to fill out in Weiss’ office. He had a lot to prove. He was the youngest player on the team and somehow also the captain.
“...Rozanov?... No way!” Ilya’s ears picked up his own name and he immediately snapped to attention. Someone was talking about him in the tunnel that led to the locker rooms. It was a woman’s voice.
The woman was speaking rapidly with Coach Weiss, he realized.
He could only pick out a few words of what Coach Weiss said, “... no one else… sportsmanship” and “...doctor…” The word “doctor” immediately struck the fear of god in Ilya.
He tried to listen in more, but it seemed the two of them walked further away from the rink.
He busied himself studying the Canadian team. It felt a bit unfair for him to get to observe them and their plays. He decided he didn’t care and tried to commit as much to memory as possible.
Canada and Russia competed for gold in the Junior Olympics the year prior. Meaning, Ilya recognized almost all the players on the Canadian team. Not much had changed when the country put together another all-star team for this year. Marleau was captain again. He was a steady player, always consistent. Equally strong in backhand and forehand and an agile skater. Hollander was the co-captain. A perfect player, so perfect he was annoying. He never fought on the ice. Never cursed and was frustratingly good. His perfect parents were at every game. All his interviews were completed with media-trained answers and pearly white smiles. Like Ilya, he was only 16 years-old. Him and Ilya were the youngest this year. Pike, Brood, and Barnett were other players Ilya recognized. They were a solid team, he realized. His stomach dropped at the realization. Russia had to win this year. It was his national duty, or so his father reminded him every time he left for the rink.
He had a pretty good idea of who was on his own team this year. Russia was going to be solid. He had concerns for his back line, but that would be something they had a month and a half to work on.
Coach Weiss materialized in front of Ilya with a familiar woman and Coach Petrov. This man should be called Casper, Ilya thought. He’s annoyingly friendly and continues to appear out of nowhere.
“Rozanov!” Coach Weiss greeted. “This is Mrs. Hollander and you already know Coach Petrov”
Ilya stood immediately, his body moving like wet cement. Of course, this was Hollander’s mom. The woman he heard in the tunnel. “Hello, Mrs. Hollander. Petrov.” Ilya held out his hand to shake Mrs. Hollander’s hand.
She looked him up and down suspiciously before shaking his hand, “Rozanov.”
Ilya had no idea why he was meeting Shane Hollander’s mother, but he could tell in an instant that the woman did not like him. If there is one thing Ilya was good at, it was reading a room. He knew how to diffuse situations, when to retreat quietly to his room, and when to just leave the house. Ilya zoned out trying to remember the interviews he had seen with Hollander’s mom. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized Coach Weiss was talking to him.
“... with the Hollanders.” Coach Weiss finished speaking and smiled. Ilya hadn’t heard what he was saying, his face had been angled away from Coach Weiss and staring into Mrs. Hollander. It was harder for him to pick out the English words when he had to lip read with one eye.
“You’ll be staying with the Hollanders,” Coach Weiss informed him again, looking concerned at Ilya’s lack of response.
Fuck.