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When Shane found out his coach chose him to go the the international scouting competition, he was shocked. He could play, and well, but he certainly wasn’t the best on the junior team, no, that had to be someone bigger, stronger, faster. “I chose you, Shane. Don’t make me regret that,” the man grunted, rubbing at the lines by his eyes. He felt small, standing there in his office, holding a stick almost half the size of an official one.
“When are they?” He finally asked, too scared to be embarrassed of the squeak in his voice.
“In 3 months.” He looked over the screen of his computer, eyebrows raised and lips pursed.
“I’m going to train the hell out of you. Are you ready for that?” Shane had wanted to cry. He wanted to flap his hands, and bite his lips, and grind his skates into the ice, but he wasn’t a little kid anymore. And either way, he was in shoes in a carpeted office. Instead, he squared his shoulders, and nodded. His coach grinned.
“‘Course you are, sport. Now head home and tell your parents.”
He was all but pulled out of school for training. His teachers cut his homework to barely anything, and all other extracurriculars were cancelled. If he was awake, he was either thinking about or playing hockey. His mom was worried that he would burn out, and fretted over everything about his trip to come. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, making meals full of vitamins and protein for her ‘growing boy’. Shane had grown a foot in the past year, and at the ripe age of 14 was already 5’7”. He worried about how many pairs of skates he had gone through during his various growth spurts, but if he did well in the championship, he’d never have to think about it again. Scouts would pay for everything if it meant having a good prospect for their team. His dad told him stories of his own scouting competitions, what the teams looked like at McGill, and answered every other question Shane had never thought to ask.
“You got this, bud,” his dad said every night, before kissing his hair and letting him go get ready for bed. It didn’t feel like he did.
The championship was in California, and there were to be 1,329 kids in attendance from over 20 countries. Everyone was from 13-17, and at least a third of the attendees didn’t know English. Shane didn’t find it unlikely that he was the only one who could speak Quebecois. The heat on the coast was muggy, something Shane knew was going to be present but still didn’t expect.
“Are they going to host the whole thing on an indoor rink?” He asked, jogging to keep up with his coach. His parents were at the hotel while he got registered, and was given a jersey for all the games and competitions.
“Multiple rinks, probably. All inside. Which means you have an advantage.”
“I do?” Coach Brahm looked back at him, chuckling. “How often do you practice on clean rinks?”
“Almost never.” He stumbled when the coach clapped a hand on his back, continuing to drag him to the registration table for the team he had been given.
“Right, you practice on frozen ponds and community rinks. These kids only know rinks with their own zamboni, they’re smooth and perfect year round. But you know how to skate on uneven ice, so smooth ice will be a piece of cake.” He didn’t think that was how it worked even slightly. Besides, the rink his dad built in their backyard was pretty smooth, at least until it started melting. They were finally corralled into a line, Shane in front of Brahm, with the man's hands on his shoulders.The woman checking him in was frazzled, with thick curly hair, purple glasses, and an upside-down nametag.
“Language?” Brahm leaned forward to answer, an easy grin on his face. “English and French.”
“Name?”
“Hollander, Shane.” She nodded, typing the information into her computer lightning fast. They started talking about height and weight classes, before he was dragged off to another room to be completely checked out. They wrote his weight on his arm, and his height underneath that. They listened to his breathing, his heart, and checked his blood pressure. They asked about vaccinations, sore joints, and handicaps he had that would affect him in game, and he was suddenly spouting off more information about himself than he was even sure he knew. But they wrote it down, and finally handed him his jersey. 34, Hollander. Their name was ‘red’ as a placeholder, until the team could come up with their own name. The final shuffle was into a party room, where 6 other kids were sitting, looking uncomfortable. He’d barely noticed he was still shirtless, until one of the boys squinted at him with judgement. He tugged his shirt back on while all the other kids looked on with curiosity.
“Hollander?” One boy asked, peering at his jersey. He nodded weakly.
“I’m Alfie Shaw,” he said confidently, strutting up and catching his hand, shaking it almost violently.
“Shane Hollander.” Alfie was big. His shoulders were wide, and he had to be brushing near six foot. His skin was tan, and his hair was messy. He was definitely a goalie.”How old are you? I’m 16.”
“I’m 14.” He nodded, and stepped back so he could see the other boys in the room. The other kids waved, but none stood up. In the corner, twisting a thin chain around his finger, was the only one who didn’t move. His jersey was crumpled on the floor, turned to where no one could see the name on it. He was spindly, but when his hands moved, the muscles in his forearms were obvious. His eyes were dark and focused on the chain his hands, not even looking up at the racket Alfie was making introducing everyone. Shane was immediately intrigued. But first, he went around shaking hands and learning names, everyone except the boy in the corner.
Attention was dragged off him when two more boys came in, muttering to each other in Spanish. One of the boys at the table, Dom, lit up and immediately chattered with them, taking the time to introduce everyone. Shane took the break to go over to the boy in the corner. He was crowned with blonde curls, and dazzling blue eyes. Shane shoved his hand toward him.
“Hi! I’m Shane.” He smiled the smile his mom told him would make people like him. The boy looked up, face painted in confusion. He had thick eyebrows, and a surprisingly strong cupids bow. He shook Shane’s hand, but said nothing.
“What’s your name?” The boy, still, said nothing. Shane sniffed, and resorted to grabbing his jersey, pointing at his name, and then himself.
“Hollander,” he said. “Shane Hollander.” The kid blinked, and shoved his chain into his pocket. One hand swept down, and grabbed his own jersey.
“Rozanov,” he said tersely. Russian. Shane had not expected that.
“Ilya,” he added. He held out his jersey, shaking his hand as if to take Shane’s. Not knowing what else to do, he let him take it, and took the one that was offered. Ilya tugged it over his head, and grinned up at him.
“Shane,” he said excitedly, smoothing the Russian accent down as well as he could. Shane let out a surprised laugh, and copied him. “Ilya,” he said back, holding his hand out once more. Ilya shook his hand again, laughing softly, with a smug grin on his face.
Each team was meant to have at least 15 kids, making about 88 teams in the whole championship. They got lucky, stacked with the entire 15. 10 people on their team spoke English, 4 spoke English and another language, and 5 stared at everyone blankly whenever English was spoken. Most of them got by on Spanish, a bit of Italian, amd some bad French, but Ilya was the only one completely cut off in terms of language.
“I thought Europeans always knew like 6 languages?” Shane asked, looking at Alfie. The older boy stuck his tongue out.
“Most of us do. Pretty boy over there probably hasn’t been anywhere but Russia, so he has no reason to know anything but Russian.” Ilya frowned at him, still standing near Shane.
“Ilya,” he corrected, tone sharp. Alfie nodded, almost impressed. He jabbed a finger into his own chest.
“Alfie,” he said, smiling jovially. Shane heard Ilya copy him under his breath, Cockney accent barely drowning out his natural Russian. They were back in their own jerseys, but the image of the other boy wearing his number would probably never leave his head. A coordinator came in to get the names of coaches and parents, and make sure they’d correctly organized them all into the same hotel. They also dropped off a Russian dictionary, which Ilya grabbed excitedly. He flipped through the first pages, before coming to the one with numbers. He flipped the book around, and tapped on ‘15’.
“Pyatnadtsat',” he said, tapping his chest. Shane pointed at the number above it.
“Fourteen,” he said, pointing at himself. Ilya made a clicking sound, smirking. “Molodoy,” he chirped, pointing at Shane. He came to the corresponding page, and tapped ‘young’.
“Only by a year,” he whined, groaning dramatically. Ilya just laughed harder. Alfie snickered at them, reading through the list of their regular spots on the ice. No one had been named team captain yet, that would wait for the next day, but the two oldest boys would likely end up in the role. They would probably be scouted, and end up on teams before they were even in university. The idea was exhilarating, and soul crushing at the same time. No one would notice him when they could be paying attention to someone like Alfie or Jack. He distracted himself by learning the names of hockey positions in Russian.
The first day was purely organizational, and they wanted each team in the building and meeting each other for an hour at most. Then, they all got shoved onto a bus with their coaches, and returned to their hotels. Coaches had spent the hour running numbers, arguing, and trying to draft gameplays that would put attention on all the kids, so they were lolling behind the team as they fought their way back through the building. Brahm cared enough to give Shane an affectionate bump in the shoulder, but stayed with the other adults when Shane ran to catch up with Ilya. The older boy didn’t go up to any of the coaches, choosing to forge a path towards the exit. Alfie and Jack, the oldest members of the team, were watching him curiously. It didn’t take any discussion for them to take pseudo captain roles. They were the oldest, and had therefore been playing the longest, which gave them the most experience. Over the next few days, actual decisions would have to be made in terms of leadership and positions, but even then it’s likely they would have the most say. By the looks on their faces, it seemed like they had plans for Ilya. Shane caught up with him, bumping their shoulders as he matched their speed. He smiled, and wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders. The younger boys’ spine clicked softly as he straightened up, tipping his chin up, subtly checking the difference in their height. Ilya noticed, and copied, grinning as he went up on his toes slightly. They reached the bus before everyone, and continued the game, attempting to appear taller. Ilya slid the sleeve of his jersey up, and flexed his arm, his bicep popping into view. Shane copied, smirking when they came out to be the same size. Ilya rose back to his toes.
“Ya vyshe tebya!” He barked, placing his hands on the younger boys’ shoulders to gain leverage, and rise higher. His grin was wide and bright, shining like the sun.
“No!” Shane argued back, jutting his chin up as high as he could. And they were giggling, falling into each other, hands grappling and pushing and pulling as they weakly wrestled. Brahm chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly. Another coach looked on with annoyance.
“Focus, Ilya!” He snapped. As if on instinct, Ilya straightened up immediately, face going red with shame.
“Let them play,” another coach said, pulling a face. “It’s not game day.”
“Every day is game day for Ilya,” the man said, a Russian accent squeezing his words. “He is here to win.”
Shane immediately didn’t like the man. He was too tall, and his hooked nose was ugly. Worst of all, Ilya looked scared of him. The team loaded onto the bus, and planned to meet up at the pool once they’d checked in with their families. There were 5 teams staying at that hotel, and a banquet room was reserved for all their meals so they could get to know one another. Each team had their own floor, but communal areas were communal areas, so they could run into other kids in the pool, gym, or game room. Shane had to mime swimming in order for Ilya to understand the plan. It ended with them nearly crying with laughter, and barely managing to find the words they wanted in the dictionary. Brahm and the intimidating Russian coach stared at them, and said nothing.
Brahm had the room next to Shane and his parents. He wondered if the man was lonely, having left his wife and young daughter back in Montreal, but he didn’t think much about it. Seeing people sad made him sad, so he tried to avoid all types of negative feelings. Besides, he didn’t get the chance to think about it very hard before his mother was chattering about lighting, and waving a camera around, directing him to hold out his jersey with a smile. It wasn’t a good smile, he wanted to get to the pool after all, but clearly the photos she got were good enough.
“So, buddy, did you get a good team?” His mom asked, squinting as he dropped his jersey and went to rummage through his suitcase almost immediately.
“I think so. We’ve got some pretty big guys, but still some lighter wingers. I think we’ll do well in team games.”
“Did you make any friends?” His dad’s hands were weaved together as he fidgeted. He was always more worried about his friends than his gameplay. Shane preferred to talk about his hockey rather than friends, but for once, he stopped and stood up.
“I think I’m friends with one of the boys on my team. He’s Russian.” Over his head, his parents made discreet eye contact. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen. His name is Ilya. He seems cool, even if I can’t understand anything he says.” Shane tugged his shirt off, and dropped it into the suitcase, trading it for his swim trunks. He rushed past his parents to slip into the bathroom, shutting the door to change quickly. He nearly tripped on his boxers, but managed to get into his trunks without injury. “Shane, what are you doing honey?”
“We agreed to meet at the pool,” he grunted, packing his clothes into a ball and stuffing it into the suitcase after slipping back out of the bathroom. His dad was standing against the wall, his eyebrows raised and a small grin on his lips. Shane didn’t notice. He scooped up a towel, kissed his mother on the cheek, and ran out the door. Down the hall, another boy from his team, Davie, was also ducking out of his room, tripping over his feet.
“Davie!” He whisper-shouted. “Hollander!” He called back, racing over to him.
“Guess what? My parents are out sightseeing with my little sister, so they can’t stop me from having two desserts tonight,” he boasted jokingly. With coaches watching their every move, he wouldn’t dare. Shane snorted, as they made their way to the stairs, ready to race down to the lowest level, where the pool was.
“Do you think this hotel is big enough for a waterslide?”
“I don’t know, but I hope so.” They raced their way down the stairs, tapping a keycard to get into the gym/sauna/pool area. Alfie was outside the door, frowning dramatically. “You lads got a card?”
“Did you not bring one?”
“My dad came down with me, but he got off to get to the car. I didn’t know the pool also needed the key.” Davie chuckled, and slapped his key on the small box, before shoving his whole body against the door. He was slight, for a hockey player, but Shane had seen his goal average, so he knew that he was a valuable player. Most of the team was already there, the younger members already messing around on the fairly decent waterslide, while some of the older kids sat in a hot tub, soaking comfortably. Ilya was sitting on the edge of the pool, legs in the water, kicking back and forth. Davie went to the hottub, while Alfie beelined for a vending machine, and Shane, of course, went straight to Ilya. He ditched his towel on an unclaimed chair, and launched himself into the pool, ricocheting off the pool floor and whipping his hair like Ariel when he breached the surface. He giggled so himself at the impressive wave he’d managed to dump on Ilya. The older boy looked unimpressed.
“Shane,” he said, shaking his head.
“Ilya,” he said back, sticking his tongue out.
“Come in?” Ilya wrinkled his nose. “Ya ne umeyu plavat',” he said softly. He mimed swimming, before blowing a raspberry, and making a thumbs down motion. Shane couldn’t help but frown.
“You can’t swim?” They mimed back and forth, attempting to bridge the gap between languages, before finally Ilya stood up and wandered to a shallower section.
“Ya.” He pointed to his feet, and settled back in the water. From the deck, Alfie snickered. “You two are like my gran and pops. He can’t hear for shit, so she has to write everything down, or sign it.”
“We’re figuring it out,” Shane said defensively. “‘Course you are, laddie.” He dove into the water, and began to swim laps. Alfie could probably bench press him if he wanted to. The thought wasn’t comforting. Ilya inched forward, until the water reached his hips, where he leaned forward with a conspiratorial look on his face. “Laddie,” he said, once again trying on a horrible cockney accent. Shane splashed him with water to avoid admitting that it was funny.
With help from a drier team member, and the dictionary Ilya had brought downstairs, Shane managed to explain to him that there were 14 strong swimmers in the room, and the deepest the water got was 5 feet.
“You,” he gestured to the older boy.
“Will not,” he made an X with his arms.
“Drown,” he feigned a dramatic, drowning death.
The people in the hot tub were in stitches with laughter, with only Dom taking them seriously, still flipping through the dictionary so Shane could butcher the Russian language.
“Drown,” Ilya repeated, pointing at the water.
“No, don’t do that,” Dom muttered with exasperation, running a hand through his hair. Again, Shane acted out that he would not drown. It took five tries for them to realize that Ilya had begun to mess with them. That was when Shane tackled him, equally hating and loving the slide of their skin in the water. He only thrashed a bit when he became submerged, but calmed once he found his footing.
“Hollander,” he grumbled, pushing Shane off him and wiping his hair out of his eyes.
“Eto strashno.” The chlorine had irritated his eyes, making the blue of them even more vibrant. His soggy curls looked more elegant, somehow. He pouted a little, clearly very aware of the effect he was having on Shane. His lips were so dark, made more obvious by the water, and Shane didn’t know why he was thinking these things, but he couldn’t get them out of his head. They were distracted by Jack clapping Ilya on the shoulder, grinning like mad.
“Hey! Good job bro!” He stuck his thumb in the air to portray positivity, shaking Ilya’s shoulder until the younger boy copied him, offering an awkward smile. Apparently, that was enough, because Jack returned to Alfie’s side, muttering something about racing as a work out.
“We should play water volleyball,” one of the younger boys offered, pointing to the net hanging on one side of the pool.
“Little dude, that is the best idea anyone has ever had,” Jack said seriously. Shane had never met an American prior to that day, but Jack was a perfect example of what they were. He giggled at the thought, and let Ilya drag him to the game. Clearly the net was all the information he needed.
“Moya komta,” Ilya muttered the next week. “Dvesti pyat'desyat sem.” He was practically asleep against the table, exhausted from the drills their team of coaches had them running all day. Their first game had been three days ago, and they had won on a fallacy. Ilya was their official team captain, decided on by Alfie and Jack. At first, he drew up as many game plans as he could, and had his coach translate it. But then he felt the players didn’t respect him, so he was trying to get better at english, along with the spanish kids. Still, he was exhausted, and Russian was easier.
“Ilya, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Niet papa, Shanye,” he said, dragging out his name. That, he understood. Ilya didn’t have a parent with him. From what little he understood of the situation, Shane gathered that his coach was either loosely related to him, or had very strong ties to his family, and was thus allowed to take the boy to the championship. By ‘niet papa’ he could only assume Ilya meant that he was alone in his room. He held up two fingers, then five, then seven.
“Komta,” he said again. Shane sighed, and slid the dictionary towards him. The older boy grumbled, and didn’t bother to lift his head while searching for the words he needed. He pointed to ‘room’ first, before flipping to ‘sleep’ and ‘over’. Then he tilted his head to stare up at Shane, eyebrows raised hopefully. He nodded before his brain had even realized what he was agreeing to.
“You boys having a party without us?” Jack asked from the next table over, grinning like mad.
“You’re not invited,” Shane said flatly. The older boy would know it was a joke. Shane could only hope he’d still take it seriously. He sucked his teeth, and chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah. Just send the girls over my way once you’ve run through ‘em, huh?” Ilya, somehow having already picked up on a good amount of locker room talk, scowled.
“Valavoy, Jack,” he hissed. “What he said,” Shane agreed.
“And what did he say?”
“That you’re gross.”
“The ladies love gross.” Ilya wrinkled his nose, and began to mutter to himself. He only managed to pick up enough words to understand that it was an insult to his relations with women. He smirked, and turned away to finish his meal.
Ilya’s room only had one bed, something the older boy seemed to find completely normal. Shane, on the other hand, hadn’t shared a bed with a friend since he was 7 years old, with Robbie Thorne. Robbie had been Shane’s best friend, and completely okay with sharing. But the next monday, st school, he’d laughed and said he hadn’t even slept over, that Shane was lying. They weren’t friends. He changed schools the next week, and hadn’t spoken to Robbie since. He had, though, been on the opposing team in the city championship. He kicked Robbie’s whiny ass, and had the medal to prove it. The medal wasn’t worth shit compared to beating his old friend. Ilya was sitting on the bed, attempting to write something out in English. Shane wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what. He slipped into the washroom to brush his teeth, and run a wet hand through his hair in lieu of cleaning it. Showering was a nightmare, and he was too smart to shower in the same room as a hockey player. It was cosmically impossible for that to end well. Ilya slipped up behind him, a piece of paper clutched against his chest.
“I am feel jet lag,” he said slowly. “No tired.” Shane choked, coughing out his toothpaste.
“Since when can you speak english?”
“Prac-tise.” He held out the paper, where he’d written: ‘I will learn to swear this week.’ Shane rolled his eye with a chuckle. “Of course you will.” Ilya nodded, proud of his sentence. “Bed now?”
“Yes,” Shane agreed. And then, suddenly, the older boy was kissing him. Shane had never been kissed before, and moreso, he had never been grabbed by the waist with so much fervour, especially by a boy. A beautiful boy. So his reaction, however unfortunate, was to push Ilya away. “What are you doing?” The older boy frowned. “Is this not how to show affection?”
“Not unless you like someone!” He frowned. “I like you.” Shane’s skin was crawling. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is WRONG. “No, I mean like like.”
“What is this, ‘like like’?” Shane’s hands began to flap around, making soft patting sounds as he tried to calm down.
“How boys like girls,” he stuttered. His breathing was uneven, fast paced like he was doing laps around a rink in a sweatsuit. Ilya looked very concerned, taking a step back to dodge the rapid movement of Shane’s hands. “Why can’t I like you how I like girls?”
“It doesn’t work like that!” Carefully, Ilya caught one of his hands, holding it steadfast to tug him close. The contact would normally have been too much. The hugs, the tackling, the fights after a hockey game, they were what made Shane shut down for hours on end, and this should have been the same. But instead, it quieted the hum behind his eyes, and therefore the urge to melt to the floor and cry. “Who says?”
Who says.
Shane got used to being kissed quite quickly. The feeling of Ilya’s lips against his, the slide of his hand against his arm, his back, his waist… he was addicted. His own hands were feverish, gripping at Ilya’s bare waist to pull him as close as possible.
“You feel good now?” He asked in between kisses, petting his hair. Shane hummed, and tipped his head back. “Petseluy…petseluy menya,” he whispered. Ilya grinned, and kissed him harder.
In the weeks that followed, they won the championship. Alfie was scouted by a team in Italy, and Jack to Florida. The twin boys went to Utah, and Ilya to a team in Ontario. And Shane went to his home team. A junior member, but a member nonetheless. He got an honorary jersey, Hollander, number 34. He couldn’t take it off for weeks, wore it everywhere, even to bed. Plus, with the money from the championship, he was able to buy a phone, and save Ilya as his first ever contact. 4 years later, they entered their rookie year, not out, but not in the closet either. Shane never stopped being addicted to the feeling of Ilya’s lips, or the feeling of his hand in his.