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Rozanov is quiet on the walk through the mostly-abandoned rink, which isn’t quite what Yuna expected of him. The coverage of him she’s seen, at the draft and surrounding this competition, paints him as a brash, reckless young player.
Certainly something that tracks with wandering outside at the beginning of January in Ottawa in nothing but his UnderArmour.
Shane, meanwhile, isn’t, which is more of a surprise. He’s stomping along next to Rozanov, huffing and side-eyeing the other boy, and finally starts berating him under his breath about the sheer fucking stupidity and utter disregard for your own well-being and what the fuck would you have done if we hadn’t looked for you, you asshole?
He keeps it quiet enough that Yuna can pretend she doesn’t hear, as if she’d interrupt him when he’s actually talking to someone his age. Oh, it’s not a surprise to her that he has those thoughts; he may know how to talk to the press, but she’s driven him to and from enough games and practises and hockey camps to be well-acquainted with his judgemental streak once he lets his guard down.
He just doesn’t usually let his guard down around strangers.
They’ve almost reached the Team Canada staff rooms – the Russian staff is all gone with the exception of the final equipment managers who appear to have packed everything except for Rozanov’s private stuff, which Shane stuffs into Rozanov’s duffel without breaking stride in his cursing once it becomes clear that Rozanov is shaking too hard to do it himself – when Rozanov finally snorts.
“This is much English,” he says, slowly like his mouth is too cold still to move, or like he has to think about the words. “Showing off?”
Shane exhales something almost like a laugh and bumps his shoulder into Rozanov’s, which sends the other boy stumbling. Shane yelps, lurches after him, and manages to steady Rozanov before he actually falls. Yuna lets her hands sink once it becomes clear that she won’t have to intervene.
“Sorry,” Rozanov says, still with the same thick accent.
“Asshole.”
“Shane,” Yuna chastises gently, both because it’s said loud enough that she kind of has to, and because he shouldn’t be jostling Rozanov like that.
Shane ducks his had, and if he weren’t bundled up in two layers of fleece, she’d undoubtedly be able to see his neck flush.
Rozanov doesn’t add anything, not even to protest when Shane sticks close like he’s afraid Rozanov will topple any second. Yuna can relate, which she’d never expected to feel towards Ilya Rozanov, the little shit who took the top spot in the draft.
“Here we are,” she says before she can lose herself in those thoughts. She also really needs to update David; it’s a wonder he hasn’t yet tried to call her. “Are you good on your own?”
Rozanov blinks at her while Shane opens his mouth, though Rozanov beats him to saying anything: “Uh… my English… is not good. And I am – Russian.”
No shit.
“They will help you regardless.” They would never leave a teenager to his own devices, especially not one who’s either hypothermic or too close to it for comfort. “You’ll be alright.”
Rozanov clenches his chattering teeth and looks from her to Shane and back to her, before he asks, very quietly, “Can you… stay?”
“Of course,” Shane says, with a look at her that’s adorable if misplaced.
Rozanov smiles, and if Yuna had had any reservations sticking with him, that would have melted them. “Thank you.”
“I am still a mother, Mr. Rozanov,” Yuna reminds him, and this time, in the harsh light of the rink, she can see him grimace. Oh. A sore subject? She has no idea what his family life is like, but it’s probably safe to say that she should tread lightly – at least while he’s this weak.
Which they are trying to change. Before either boy can do anything else, she knocks on the trainer’s door briskly.
“Yes?”
Yuna cracks the door open and peers inside. It’s only Derksen inside, one of the senior athletic trainers. He should be able to help them.
“Mrs. Hollander,” he says, faintly surprised. “Everything alright with Shane?”
“Yes, but… we have someone else here who could benefit from a checkup.” She opens the door wider and gestures the two boys inside.
Derksen takes one look at Rozanov and curses. “What happened?”
“Outside is cold,” Rozanov says, which makes Shane snort again.
“He got locked outside in just his UnderArmour,” Shane supplies when it becomes clear Rozanov won’t add anything else. “And the Russian team’s already all gone.”
“Christ.” Derksen scrubs his hand over his face, and then motions Rozanov over. “English?”
Rozanov nods. “Slow. My English is not very good.”
“It will be fine. Should they leave?”
“No. They stay.”
“Okay. Then let’s get you checked over…”
Yuna keeps half an eye on Derksen examining Rozanov – taking his temperature and checking his vitals, clucking under his breath – and texts David to grab Shane’s stuff from the locker room because they’re having a small, non-Shane-related emergency.
Ominous, David texts back.
We are both fine, I will explain later. We shouldn’t be too long, Yuna texts back, which is probably still not reassuring, but she doesn’t fancy explaining this situation to David over text. Or leaving the room after promising Rozanov she’d stay.
For his part, Rozanov lets the trainer check him over gamely. He doesn’t protest, though he gratefully sinks onto the chair in the office when Derksen releases him.
“What’s the verdict?” Yuna asks.
“Escaped the worst. No hypothermia yet, but I want him under observation for the night. Is your team back at the hotel?”
Rozanov starts, like he’d checked out. “What?”
“Your team. Are they back at the hotel?”
“We fly home tonight.”
“No,” Derksen says.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you flying yet,” Derksen says, unimpressed by Rozanov’s cheek. “I would ideally like you under observation for the night.”
Rozanov’s eyes flick from Derksen to her and then to Shane, before he asks, “Observation?”
“Have someone watch you,” Shane explains, “in case you get – sick.”
“Oh.” Rozanov hesitates, before he shakes his head. “I am okay, I will fly.”
“You shouldn’t. Is there no one who can stay with you?”
“Tickets are… money.” Rozanov grimaces. “Is not… easy.”
Well, that’s bullshit. Hopefully, the Russian team has opted for rebookable seats in case something happens, but if not, they can work something out. “Give me your coach’s number,” Yuna tells him, “and I’ll see what I can do.”
Rozanov cringes back. “He speaks no English. I really should –”
“Do you want to risk your health before you start in the MLH?” Yuna asks, because in her experience, that is the best way to get a young hockey player to see sense. “We’re living close by, we can keep an eye on Rozanov. Don’t fight doctor’s orders, kid.”
“He says he is not doctor,” Rozanov points out, but he’s deflating. “But… team is maybe at airport now.”
“You’ll be fine with us. Dad is pretty cool,” Shane adds, which is very high praise from him.
“So boring, like all Canadians?”
Shane laughs. “Hey! We aren’t boring.”
“If you say so. Maybe become Canadian. Live forever in Canada now because no way home.”
“If we can’t rebook your seat, we’ll find a way. We won’t kidnap you.”
Rozanov mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound too happy.
“Okay,” Derksen says after a moment. “Here’s the most important information on what to look out for, and I will email you the contact info for the Russian team in a moment, I’ll just have to grab it from the computer, and then… I really mostly wish you a speedy recovery, Mr. Rozanov. And good luck in Boston.”
This gets an actual smile from Rozanov. “Thank you.” He stands, teeters briefly, and then tries to grab his duffle that Shane very sneakily keeps out of his reach. “Fine. Steal my things. Do I sleep on street?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Well, that would be stupid,” he tells Rozanov. “We have a guest room, obviously. Or if you’re scared of the dark, we can do a sleepover in the den.”
“I am not scared. You are boring and scared.”
“Hey!”
But Shane is smiling, too, and Yuna can’t help but feel that maybe, this is a blessing in disguise.