Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov is a name that needs no introduction.
He is an accomplished retired hockey player—one of the best in the history of the beloved sport. He has won more Stanley Cups with his team than anyone. He’s taken home multiple Conn Smythe trophies. After retiring, he naturally moved into coaching, and now he is the new head coach of the Boston Raiders, the team he spent most of his legendary career with.
Outside of hockey, Rozanov has always been something of an enigma—a charismatic demon.
It doesn’t help that he’s sexy. His Russian looks make him irresistible to both women and men. In his younger days, he was a paparazzi favorite. They knew they could always count on him leaving bars with someone new, hands wandering shamelessly as he walked them toward whichever flashy sports car he had driven that night.
There were scandals, too.
One time, he fucked a teammate’s girlfriend, which made the poor guy so furious that he tried to beat Rozanov to a pulp in the locker room. If karma were real, Rozanov would’ve been the one getting booted. But the Raiders weren’t about to trade away their star player, so they traded the other player.
Frankly, they didn’t give a shit who Rozanov was sleeping with. As long as he kept leading them to the Cup, they were perfectly happy to look the other way.
All this to say: Ilya Rozanov has always been a cocky, arrogant, spiteful, and deeply annoying son of a bitch.
He knows he’s one of the greatest to ever do it, and he acts like it.
Even now, in his late thirties, he somehow looks even better than he did during his playing days. Ripped abs, tall as hell, and looking like sin. Age has only sharpened him. He’s still unattached, still driving flashy sports cars through Boston like the city belongs to him, still leaving chaos in his wake.
But there is one thing no one can ever take away from him. Ilya Rozanov breathes hockey. He sees the game differently from everyone else. He always has. When he watches a player skate, he can already see the mistake they’re about to make. The play they should have taken. The weakness they don’t even realize they’re showing.
Very few players have ever surprised him. Fewer still have managed to get under his skin.
This is his first season as head coach of the Raiders, a position he takes very seriously. He has something to prove—to the league, to the fans, maybe even to himself. He has to show that he can lead his team to the playoffs.
He is determined. And Ilya Rozanov has never been above doing whatever it takes to win.
***
He’s going through the list of draft prospects in his office. It’s one of the most important parts of being a head coach—choosing a new, young player from a pool of eager-eyed hopefuls who all believe they belong in the league. He knows that most of them won’t make it.
“Any progress?” His best friend and assistant coach, Cliff Marleau, asks as he leans against the doorframe with a cup of coffee. They had played side-by-side for years on the Raiders, winning championships and terrorizing the league together. Now they were coaching side by side, which almost felt too perfect.
The Raiders’ marketing department had called it a new age. Ilya thought it was mostly bullshit.
He flips through another profile before picking one up.
“Shane Hollander,” he says easily. “Eighteen. Fresh. And according to the media, very good.” His mouth twists faintly. “They compare him to me.”
Marleau raises an eyebrow and steps closer, glancing down at the paper. “Oh yeah, Hollander. I’ve seen clips. Kid’s as good as they say.” He shrugs. “Quiet, though. Not very sociable, from what I’ve heard. Keeps to himself.” He taps the profile. “Doesn’t matter anyway. We won’t get him. He’ll probably go first overall, and that goes to Montreal this year.”
Ilya drops the file back onto the desk. “Too bad,” he says casually, his Russian accent still thick after all these years in North America. “He is too good for Montreal.”
Marleau snorts. Ilya leans back in his chair, staring at the name printed on the page for a moment longer before sliding the folder into the pile.
It really was too bad. Shane Hollander looked like exactly the kind of player you could build a franchise around.
He was freckled, too, if the scouting photo was accurate. He also had big doe eyes that yelled, “fuck me"--
Ilya immediately shuts that line of thought down. He is thirty-seven years old. The most decorated hockey player in history, he’s retired and a head coach. He does not (and cannot) sit in his office thinking about how attractive 18-year-old prospects are. No matter what his dick is saying.
Svetlana—his other best friend and the only person on earth brave enough to insult him regularly—had once joked that Ilya kept getting older while the people he dated did not. It had bothered him more than he liked to admit. It wasn’t untrue, but he didn’t think he was that bad.
But he did not want to be the Leonardo DiCaprio of the sports world.
So, after that, he’d made a rule. Twenty-seven was the minimum age he’d go for, and it would only go up once he hit 40. Then it would be at least 29. He’d been surprisingly good at sticking to it.
“Yeah, but what about this guy?” Marleau holds up another profile.
Ilya glances at it and immediately frowns. “Hayden Pike?” His eyebrows knit together. “You are crazy, yes? He is not even top twenty.”
Marleau rolls his eyes and drops into the chair across from the desk. “Well, genius, you still need picks. The execs want a shortlist. You can’t just reject every player who isn’t the next Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya leans forward again, flipping through the folders with quick, impatient movements. “They should want the next Rozanov,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well, there’s only been one of those,” Marleau says.
Ilya pauses. For a moment, his eyes drift back to the Hollander file sitting on the edge of the desk. He taps it once with his finger. “Maybe,” he says, “there will be another.”
Marleau follows his gaze and exhales. “Too bad he’s going to Montreal.”
Ilya closes the folder and tosses it into the pile. “Yes,” he says flatly. “Too bad.”
***
June 2021, Los Angeles
It’s the night of the draft, and Ilya is dressed in his finest. He’s wearing a fitted suit that hugs him very well—tailored within an inch of its life, because if he’s going to attend a media circus, he might as well look expensive and fine as fuck while doing it.
The draft is being held in the conference ballroom of a grand hotel. Prospects wander the room with their families, agents, and executives, all trying to look calm while clearly vibrating with nerves.
Ilya had given his shortlist to the execs. He’d slipped Hollander’s name onto it, just in case there was some bizarre miracle and the kid slipped past Montreal and the other teams. Highly unlikely, but still no harm in trying.
He’s here with Marleau, leaning casually against the bar, and he can already tell some of the younger players are staring at him, starstruck.
Ilya smirks. He still has that effect on people, and he enjoys it immensely. Being legendary should come with some perks.
He’s ordering another shot of vodka before the ceremony officially begins when he hears a fresh voice beside him.
“Um…ginger ale, please?”
Ilya turns toward the voice. It’s Shane Hollander.
Up close, he looks even younger than in the scouting photos. Those freckles are dusted across his nose like stars, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it all evening, but still very neat. His expression is carefully neutral, but something about him feels tightly wound.
Ilya stares at the youngster a moment longer than strictly necessary before the bartender returns with his vodka.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice deep and flat with Russian stoicism. He lifts the glass, and that’s when he notices Hollander turning toward him.
The kid freezes. His eyes widen. His mouth falls open slightly. He looks adora—
No. Ilya shuts that thought down immediately.
“Mr. Rozanov?” Hollander says, a little breathlessly. His voice stays mostly steady, but the awe is obvious. “It’s so good to meet you. I’ve been a fan since I was a kid. I’m Shane Hollander.”
He sticks his hand out. Ilya smirks and shakes it. The kid’s grip is firm, though there’s a hint of nerves there.
“Yes, Hollander, I have heard of you,” Ilya says, taking a slow sip of his vodka. “Very promising player.” He studies him over the rim of the glass. “They say you are the next me?”
Hollander immediately flushes, color blooming across his freckles in a way that is — unfortunately — very noticeable.
What is it with those damn freckles?
“No, no, of course not,” he says quickly. “I’m only eighteen. Wait.. I just turned nineteen. But you know, you’re the best. I look up to you a lot.”
Ilya hums softly. “Yes,” he says. “That sounds like good career decision.”
Hollander blinks, clearly trying to figure out whether that was a joke. Ilya lets the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat before adding, mildly—
“Maybe you can be next me.” Ilya’s exaggerating, kind of.
But the kid’s eyes light up immediately, and Ilya likes it.
***
The draft picks go well.
Of course, Hollander goes first overall, drafted by the Metros exactly like everyone predicted. The room practically explodes when his name is called. Cameras everywhere. His family is so proud; his parents are up on their feet. It’s a whole sentimental production.
Ilya watches from his table, expression neutral. Internally, he thinks, Yes. Montreal ruins another good player.
Still, the night turns out very well for the Raiders. They walk away with seven promising picks. Most of them are players from the shortlist Ilya gave the executives, which makes him feel extremely vindicated. Especially that kid, Luca Haas. He is going to be a very good right wing if he trains correctly. Ilya can already see it—the skating, the instincts, the way he reads the ice. He’s fucking pumped for the rookies.
The party portion of the evening drags on afterward. This is the part where executives mingle with their newly drafted rookies, shake hands, make speeches, and take photos.
Marleau is thriving. Ilya, on the other hand, is not. He’d like to leave. Formal events have never really been his scene, and usually, hockey events are filled with his peers, not rookies. Unfortunately, he arrived with Marleau, and Marleau is currently twenty feet away, talking animatedly to three terrified teenagers who look like they’ve just been adopted by a very loud uncle.
So Ilya does the sensible thing. He steals a cigarette from his coat pocket and slips out onto the balcony.
The June night air greets him with a cool breeze that moves through his hair. Boston lights glitter across the harbor in the distance.
He lights the cigarette. He doesn’t smoke much anymore. The habit mostly died when he was still playing. But every once in a while, when things are loud and irritating and full of executives, he allows himself one.
The smoke drifts upward into the night sky. As he smokes, his thoughts drift off, as it often does these days.
He’s lived a pretty good life, considering where he came from. Dead mother by suicide at 12. A father who was angry and silent, never once telling him he was proud of Ilya. A brother who was both hateful and conveniently available whenever Ilya’s money was involved.
Despite all of that, he was one of the most successful hockey players ever seen, one of the greats with multiple cups and Conn Smythes, and now one of the youngest head coaches of a major team.
Not bad for a kid from a miserable apartment block in Russia.
Sure, his private life was a little sad. He had his friends, and Svetlana was always willing to do anything with him. He’s still more than sexy enough to go clubbing and get laid. But, he didn’t have a stable partner or kids to go home to. He only had his dog, Anya. But he was happy, or as happy as one could be under his circumstances.
He had family and his mom’s grave in Russia, but he rarely visited anymore, keeping in touch only with his 17-year-old niece, Katia. She was so fun to talk to, and he loved that he had someone in his biological family who loved him for who he was.
Frankly, his niece was the apple of his eye. She’d visited him in Boston a couple of times, and he’d been able to bring her on vacation when he visited Europe.
He smiled, thinking about his darling niece, and took another puff of the cigarette.
“Oh. I’m sorry—I didn’t realize someone was out here,” a nervous but oddly monotone voice said behind him.
He turned around. Of course, it’s Shane Hollander. He stands near the doorway, looking slightly awkward, like a kid who accidentally wandered into the wrong classroom.
“Mr. Rozanov,” Hollander adds quickly. “I can leave if I’m bothering you.”
Ilya waves a hand lazily. “No need,” he says. “Is not my rooftop.” He gestures vaguely toward the skyline. “The air is nice, yes?”
Hollander hesitates, then walks over. “Yeah,” he says. “I was starting to feel a little suffocated in there.”
Up close, the kid still looks like some kind of freckled woodland creature. He looked like a cute doe-eyed bunny, and Ilya was a predator that wanted to devour–
No. Stop. 27. 27. 27. 27. He just turned 19.
A child. Just a year and a few months older than Katia– but he’s 19–
No. 27. 27. 27. 27. 27.
“Yes,” he says calmly. “These events are… how do you say… too much.”
Hollander glances at the cigarette. “Are you allowed to smoke up here?”
Ilya grins before he can stop himself. He shrugs. “I do not know,” he says. “I do not see a sign telling me no.”
Hollander considers this very seriously. “Okay,” he says finally. “You don’t mind if I stand here?”
He’s so fucking cute. Why does he look so serious? His freckles–
“No,” he said again. “Not my rooftop.”
Hollander is next to him now, a few feet away but close enough that Ilya can smell his cologne, so sweet and fresh, not sexy and manly like Ilya’s. It suits him.
“Mr. Rozanov, can I ask you a question?” Hollander said after a few minutes of complete silence.
“You do not have to call me that,” Ilya said, looking over at the boy. “Ilya is fine. I am not that old.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “So… can I?”
“Mm,” he said. He’s curious too.
“What was your draft night like?” He asked.
Ilya thought about the night that changed his life. It was similar to the one they were attending now. Suffocating. Too many people. But he was so excited, his skin buzzed the entire night.
“It was in 2002, and it was okay, not too exciting, I was the number one pick for the Raiders,” he said instead.
Hollander grins. “2002, huh?” Ilya nods. “That’s the year I was born.”
Ilya groans loudly. “You want to make me feel like old man, Hollander?”
Hollander laughs, immediately flustered. “No! I didn’t mean—”
“I am practically fossil to you,” Ilya said, feigning offense.
“No—!” He exclaims.
Ilya chuckles under his breath and takes another drag of his cigarette. Then he notices Hollander watching the smoke curl through the air.
“Have you ever smoked?” Ilya asks casually.
Hollander looks horrified. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“Very disciplined,” Ilya says approvingly. He’s impressed. When he was 19, he was smoking, fucking, doing weed, and living it up in Boston.
“My coach would kill me, and I like to be healthy,” Hollander says, all boyish charm.
“Reasonable.”
Ilya exhales another slow cloud of smoke. Hollander watches it again. Then frowns slightly.
“What does it taste like?” He asks, looking intensely at the cigarette around his lips.
Ilya wishes he were looking there because he wants to kiss his lips.
He turns his head.“…You want description?”
“Just curious.”
Ilya studies him. Then a slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Come here,” he says.
Hollander hesitates. “Why?”
“Science experiment.”
“That does not sound reassuring.”
“Trust me.”
Which, historically speaking, is something people should absolutely never do with Ilya Rozanov. But Hollander steps closer anyway.
“Okay…?” He’s right in front of the older man now. He’s so close, Ilya can count his freckles if he wanted to.
He leans slightly toward him. “Open mouth.”
Hollander blinks. “What?” He looks confused but also intrigued, if the way his doe eyes widen is anything to go by.
“You asked what it tastes like.”
“…I regret asking.”
“Too late.”
Before Hollander can overthink it, Ilya gently pulls him closer by his neck and exhales a controlled stream of smoke directly into his mouth. Hollander instinctively inhales in surprise.
The smoke slips straight into his mouth. He coughs immediately.
“What the—!” Hollander sputters, covering his mouth. “That’s horrible!”
Ilya laughs—actually laughs. It’s a deep, amused sound. “You asked.” He hasn’t had this much innocent fun in a while.
“That was cheating!” Hollander is still coughing, eyes watering. “You just violated like… five personal health policies!”
He coughs again, once, twice, waving a hand in front of his face as the last of the smoke drifts away. “That’s—” he starts, then stops, frowning thoughtfully.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Horrible?” he suggests helpfully. He remembers smoking his first cigarette. He was 13, and he’d coughed until he threw up because he had inhaled too much.
Hollander looks at him, eyes watering a little, but something in his expression shifts. The outrage fades, replaced by something more analytical.
“…Weird,” he says instead.
“Yes. Cigarettes are known for that.” Ilya can’t help the endearing grin he throws his way.
Hollander wipes at the corner of his eye, still thinking. Then, after a moment—
“Can you do it again?”
Ilya blinks. “Again.”
Hollander shrugs awkwardly. “I mean—I want to know what it actually tastes like. I was coughing the whole time.”
There’s a short silence. Ilya studies him carefully, the cigarette resting between his fingers. He should say no. He should be a responsible adult and say no.
He exhales slowly through his nose and takes another drag of the cigarette. This is a terrible idea.
Naturally, he ignores his brain and says, “Fine.”
Shane steps a little closer this time without being told. Not quite close enough.
Ilya sighs quietly. “You are still far away.”
“Oh. Right.”
Hollander steps forward again until they’re standing very close now, close enough that Ilya can see every single freckle scattered across his nose again. Close enough that the kid smells like that clean, fresh cologne again.
Ilya lifts a hand and, almost absentmindedly, places it at the back of his neck. Just to guide him. Just to move him the last inch closer. His fingers curl there lightly, warm against the skin, and the younger man goes very still.
Their faces are suddenly only a few inches apart.
“Open mouth,” Ilya murmurs.
Hollander hesitates for a second. Then he does. Ilya exhales slowly, sending the smoke forward. This time, he is ready for it. The smoke slips into his mouth, and he inhales carefully, experimentally.
For a moment, neither of them moves. They’re very close. Too close. Close enough that if Ilya tilted his head just slightly—
No.
Absolutely not.
Unfortunately, his dick is being extremely unhelpful right now. He hates it when his brain and dick are at war because he follows his dick most of the time. It’s how he ended up being mugged in Moscow in his youth.
But he can’t think about that because Hollander’s eyes are half-focused on him, curious and intent, and their lips are close enough that Ilya can feel the warmth of his breath. Kissing him would be very easy.
But it would be a terrible idea. A very terrible idea. He is the head coach of a major team. A decorated player. The kid is 19 and looks up to him for fucks’ sake!
For the first time in a while, he lets his brain win, and Ilya immediately straightens and steps back, breaking the moment.
Shane blinks, processing. Then he coughs once—much shorter this time.
“…Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s actually not as bad as I thought.”
Ilya snorts softly. “Give it time.”
Hollander rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little flustered. “I should probably—uh—go back inside,” he says. “My parents are probably looking for me.”
Ilya nods lazily, taking another drag of his cigarette like nothing unusual just happened. “Good idea.”
He lingers for half a second, like he wants to say something else. Then he nods quickly. “Goodnight, Ilya.”
“Goodnight, Hollander.”
Then, Hollander turns and heads back through the balcony doors, disappearing into the noise and light of the party.
Ilya watches the door for a moment after he’s gone. Then he exhales slowly into the night air.
“…This is going to be problem,” he mutters to himself.
***
The next few months are chaos.
Training camp starts almost immediately after the draft, and suddenly, Ilya’s life becomes nothing but hockey. Which, to be fair, is how he prefers it.
The Raiders’ practice facility is full from morning to night. Veterans come back from their summer conditioning, rookies arrive wide-eyed and desperate to prove they belong, and every single one of them thinks they deserve a roster spot.
Most of them do not.
Ilya spends the first week running brutal conditioning skates. He makes them do endurance drills, sprint intervals, bag skates, endless skating patterns designed to make them hate their lives, suicides, and puck control exercises at full speed. Anyone who slacks even a little gets sent back to the start.
He makes the defensemen run breakout drills again and again until they stop panicking under pressure. Meanwhile, Marleau makes the forwards practice forechecks and puck retrieval along the boards.
The rookies suffer the most. A few of them arrive thinking the NHL will feel like junior hockey. It does not. One of them throws up after the second conditioning skate.
Ilya doesn’t even blink. “Good,” he says calmly. “Now you are empty. You can skate faster.”
Marleau nearly chokes trying not to laugh.
He stands at center ice with his whistle, arms crossed.
“Again,” he says flatly.
The players groan.
“Good,” Ilya adds. “If you are tired now, imagine how tired you will be in third period against Toronto.”
No one complains again. After conditioning comes the real work.
He and Marleau spend hours watching players in small-area drills—three-on-three scrimmages, defensive zone breakouts, power play formations. They watch how the rookies move, how the veterans react to pressure, who thinks quickly, and who freezes when the puck is on their stick.
Some players surprise him. Others disappoint him.
Luca Haas, one of the rookies Ilya had been excited about, turns out to have excellent instincts along the boards. Fast hands. Good vision. Ilya already knows he’ll try him on the second line at right wing during preseason games.
But the defense… The defense is a disaster.
During one scrimmage, a veteran defenseman completely misses his assignment, leaving the slot wide open and allowing their opponents to score a clean, easy goal.
Ilya blows his whistle sharply. Everyone freezes. He skates over slowly.
“You,” he says, pointing his stick at the defenseman. “Why are you standing there like decorative plant?”
The player looks miserable.
“You leave center of ice open. Why?”
“I thought—”
“You thought?” Ilya interrupts. “In hockey we do not think slowly. If you must think this much, you are already losing.”
Later that afternoon, Ilya collapses into a chair in his office while Marleau drops a stack of scouting reports onto the desk.
“Good news,” Marleau says. “The rookies didn’t die today.”
He looks over at him. “Good for them,” he said. “They need toughening up.”
Marleau laughs. “You’re scaring them.”
“Good,” Ilya says.
Marleau leans against the desk. “The defensive pairings still look rough.”
“Because they are rough,” Ilya replies.
He grabs a marker and turns toward the whiteboard covered in names. On the board, there are left defense, right defense, and center lines. Everyone keeps moving.
“Carter and Nguyen cannot play together,” Ilya mutters. “They both chase puck like children.”
“Nguyen’s fast, though,” Marleau points out.
“Yes. Fast at making mistakes,” he retorts.
Marleau watches as Ilya scratches out a line combination and rewrites it. “You know the front office expects playoffs this year,” Marleau says.
Ilya pauses. “Of course they do.”
“You’re the golden boy now. Legendary player becomes head coach. Fans think it’s a fairy tale,” his friend grins.
Ilya snorts. “Yes. Hockey is famous for fairy tales.” He caps the marker and steps back from the board. “What they expect does not matter. What matters is that half this roster cannot execute basic defensive coverage.”
Marleau snorts. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Ilya considers the question. Then he shrugs. “Yes.”
He misses playing sometimes. He misses the speed and the adrenaline. The moment when the puck hits your stick, and the whole arena holds its breath. But building a team has its own satisfaction. Like solving a puzzle.
“You think Haas makes the roster?” Marleau asks.
“Maybe. He needs twenty pounds of muscle and to stop trying fancy passes,” he says.
Marleau nods thoughtfully. “That’s coach speak for yes.”
Ilya sits back down and flips open another report. “Preseason game in two weeks,” he says. “We will see who survives.”
Marleau stretches his arms over his head. “And if they don’t?”
Ilya doesn’t look up. “Then they go to the minors,” he says simply.
He yawns; he barely has time to sleep these days.
Which means he definitely does not have time to think about one particular freckled rookie from Montreal. Or the strange moment they shared on a hotel balcony.
Not at all.
***
Training camp continues relentlessly, and the preseason is worse. Between practices, video sessions, roster cuts, endless meetings with management, and trying to find a week to see his niece, Ilya barely has time to sleep, let alone dwell on a nineteen-year-old rookie from Montreal with cute freckles.
Of course, he still hears about him. That part is unavoidable. Shane Hollander is the number one overall pick, and the media treats him like the second coming of hockey.
Every sports channel has a highlight reel of his previous games from the junior championships. Every analyst has an opinion. Clips of him skating circles around defenders in rookie camp appear on Ilya’s phone whether he wants them or not. The kid is a fucking genius on the ice.
Marleau brings him up more than once. One afternoon during video review, Marleau pauses a highlight from another game and glances over.
“You seen Hollander yet?” He asks.
Ilya doesn’t even look up from the stat sheet he’s reviewing. “No.”
“Liar.” Marleau taps the screen. Hollander cuts across the offensive zone, threads a pass through two defenders, and sets up an easy goal.
“He reminds me of you when you were young,” Marleau says.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “He is not even half as good.”
Marleau snorts. “Yeah, okay.”
The truth is, Ilya knows he’s lying. Shane Hollander is that good, and maybe even better than people think. Which is exactly why Ilya avoids looking him up. He tries to avoid the highlight reels, the analysis, and especially, thinking about the kid leaning too close on a hotel balcony while smoke curled between them.
It’s easier that way. He does not need to think about Shane Hollander. He doubts the rookie is thinking about him. That strategy works perfectly.
Right up until the preseason schedule is released.
Ilya receives the schedule in an email from the front office late one evening after practice. He opens the attachment, scanning the list of exhibition games.
Boston vs. New York.
Boston vs. Philadelphia.
Boston vs Montreal.
Ilya stares at the screen for a moment. From across the office, Marleau looks up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Ilya closes the laptop calmly, his face completely stoic.
Inside, however, something in his chest feels oddly… bright. Giddy.
The feeling is ridiculous, and he immediately pushes it down.
After all, it’s just another preseason game.
***
Ilya definitely does not have time to think about Hollander when he's on vacation with Katia. He'd arranged for them to go to Italy this year, spending a few days eating and exploring, and then taking her shopping. His brother might be a prick, but he'd managed to produce the sweetest girl Ilya has ever known, and for that, he's eternally grateful.
He loves his niece the most, and it shows when he smiles the most when he's with her. When she smiles back, it reminds him of his Mama.
***
The first time Ilya sees him again, Hollander is in full gear. His helmet is on, visor down, and gloves resting on the top of his stick as he glides through warmups with the Montreal rookies.
He looks exactly like what he is—nineteen years old, freshly drafted, and about to prove to the entire league why he was the number one pick.
Ilya forces himself to look away. He has his own rookies to deal with.
Preseason games are not about winning, at least that is what every coach is supposed to say. They are about evaluating players, testing line combinations, and seeing who panics under pressure and who can actually handle NHL speed.
Still, Ilya prefers winning. He moves down the bench, watching his players finish warmups.
Tonight, he’s testing two rookies on the third line and giving Haas a look on the second power-play unit. One of the young defensemen is getting his first real preseason minutes, and Ilya is curious whether he will remember how to pass the puck under pressure. The answer is probably no.
He gathers the players near the bench before puck drop. He gives them a quick, encouraging pep talk. Ilya had always been good at these. When he was captain, his teammates used to joke that he could make them skate through a wall if he talked long enough.
“Play fast,” he tells them calmly. “Play smart. If you make mistake, fix it on next shift.”
A few of the rookies nod like their lives depend on it.
“Do not panic,” Ilya adds. “They are just hockey players. Not monsters.”
A small pause. Then he gestures toward the ice.
“Go.”
The players skate out. Ilya folds his arms and watches the opening faceoff.
And very carefully does not look toward the other bench. He does not need to. He already knows exactly where Hollander is. It’s like his body is aware of everything he does, and it drives him fucking insane.
He’s somewhere on the Montreal side, probably on their second line, and bouncing on his skates like an excited puppy. Not that Ilya is checking. He focuses on his team.
The first period is messy, which is expected. It’s preseason. Players are still figuring out timing, systems, line chemistry. One of Ilya’s rookies nearly skates into his own defenseman during a line change.
Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose.
Marleau mutters beside him, “Strong start.”
“Be quiet,” Ilya says.
Boston scores first midway through the period. Haas wins a puck battle along the boards and sends a quick pass into the slot. The veteran center snaps it past the goalie before anyone can react.
1–0.
Ilya nods once. He doesn’t want to be too expressive. He’ll treat them to drinks if they win.
The second period settles down a little. Both teams tighten defensively, though “tight” might be generous. There are still plenty of turnovers and missed passes.
Then Hollander scores. Ilya does not see the whole play at first.
He only notices when the crowd noise spikes. By the time he looks up, Hollander has already cut into the offensive zone. One Montreal winger draws the defense toward the boards and slides the puck across.
Hollander receives it in stride. One quick movement. The shot is fast and clean.
He ties the game. 1-1.
Ilya exhales slowly.
“Well,” Marleau says beside him, “that looked familiar.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Lucky shot.”
Marleau snorts. “Sure.”
Ilya refuses to look at the Montreal bench. He does not notice Hollander glancing briefly across the ice afterward.
The third period is tighter. Players are more cautious now, even though it’s only preseason. No one wants to lose the first game of the year. With six minutes left, Boston finally breaks the tie.
A rebound pops loose in front of the Montreal net, and one of Ilya’s veteran wingers buries it through traffic.
2–1.
The remaining minutes drag out with blocked shots, defensive clears, and one very unnecessary icing call that makes Ilya sigh loudly. But Boston holds, and the final horn sounds.
They win. Preseason or not, Ilya will take it. It’s promising, and he learned a lot about his players from watching them play against another team. It also feels good to win against the Montreal team, just because they are rivals and he hates their coach.
He turns toward the tunnel as the players leave the ice. He very carefully does not look over to see if Montreal’s rookie with the fucking freckles is looking back.
***
That night, Ilya is at a bar with his players, all buzzed and excited about their first win.
It’s nothing fancy. Just a place not too far from the arena where the team sometimes goes after games. The music is loud, the lights are low, and half the tables are filled with people wearing Boston jerseys who noticed the players walking in.
The mood is good and exciting. It’s only preseason, but a win is a win. The rookies are buzzing with adrenaline, talking too loudly and reliving the game like it was the Stanley Cup Final. The veterans are a little calmer about it, though they’re still pleased. Ilya feels extremely fond of his rookies, remembering when he was the same way.
He lets himself relax. He loosens his tie, rolls up his sleeves, and leans back in his chair while the players crowd around the table. He jokes and trades insults with them. He tells one of the rookies his defensive coverage looked like “blind man chasing pigeon.”
The table erupts in laughter.
Ilya believes in this part of the job. He doesn’t like toxic locker rooms. Never has. Hockey teams work best when players trust each other and when the room feels safe. It’s part of the “teamwork makes the dreamwork” recipe.
So off the ice, he makes a point of being approachable. He is still intimidating, obviously, but approachable.
Marleau sits next to him, already halfway through another drink.
“You’re getting soft,” Marleau says.
“I am inspiring,” Ilya replies.
“You just called that kid legally blind,” his friend huffs.
“Yes. Inspiration.” He raised an eyebrow with his signature smirk.
They take another round of shots. And another. And another.
It doesn't bother him; Ilya can hold his alcohol well. After years of post-game celebrations and terrible decisions in his twenties, his body made sure of that. He doesn’t feel drunk from a few shots, just pleasantly buzzed.
By the time the night starts winding down, he makes sure all the rookies are getting home safely.
Two of them call Ubers. One insists he’s sober enough to drive, and Ilya stares at him for a full five seconds before saying, “If you crash car tonight, I cut you from team tomorrow.”
The kid immediately orders a rideshare.
He knows what it’s like to be a rookie and how intoxicating it can get. A coach can make or break their future. Ilya was lucky enough to have his coach believe in him and take him under his wing. He wants to do the same thing for his rooks. He wants to make sure that they are successful.
Once he’s satisfied, Ilya finally heads to his own car.
He’s almost home when he remembers something. He’s completely out of Advil, and while he feels fine now, experience tells him that tomorrow morning may disagree. He sighs and pulls into a pharmacy parking lot.
Fuck being old. He’s going to be young and sexy forever.
He walks into the mostly empty store and heads straight toward the aisle with painkillers. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead as he scans the shelves. There’s regular Advil, extra strength, and PM. He stands there for a moment, debating the merits of each like it’s a complex strategic decision.
Then he hears someone say his name.
“Mr. Roz— I mean… Ilya?”
The voice is familiar. Very familiar. Almost like the same voice that’s been haunting–
Ilya shuts that thought down immediately. He turns, and there he is.
Shane Hollander stands a few feet away, holding a small basket filled with healthy snacks, sports drinks, and what appears to be an alarming number of medicines and patches.
He looks exactly the same as he did earlier. All freckles and messy hair and red lips. He has a slightly awkward posture, like he’s never quite sure what to do with his hands.
“Hollander,” Ilya says. The word comes out almost a little breathy before he corrects himself. “What are you doing in this neighborhood?” He asks, brows furrowed a little.
“Oh,” Hollander says quickly. “Our team’s hotel is nearby.”
He shifts the basket in his hands, and he’s still standing awkwardly. Just like at the balcony all those months ago.
Ilya suddenly remembers all those sports analysts talking about how Hollander is “not that sociable, but he’s the boy with the highest IQ in hockey.”
“Ahh,” Ilya says. He grabs a bottle of Advil off the shelf. “You did good today,” he adds casually. “You score one goal for Montreal.” He pauses, then grins. “Too bad my players are better, yes?”
Hollander rolls his eyes slightly. But he’s smiling. “Not better,” he says. “Just more prepared. I’ve heard you’ve been riding your team pretty hard,” Shane continues. “Some of our team's rookies know a few of yours.”
Ilya makes a dismissive noise. “I am coach. That is what I do.” He tilts his head slightly. “Maybe if your lazy coach ride you harder, Montreal might win game.”
He laughs quietly. “My coach is actually terrifying.”
“Good,” Ilya says.
Then he notices something. The way the kid is standing. His weight shifts slightly to one side. And when he reaches down to adjust the basket, there’s the faintest wince.
Ilya narrows his eyes. “You are hurt.”
Hollander freezes. “What?”
“Your hip.” He looked pointedly at his hips.
“It’s nothing,” he dismisses.
“That is not a answer.”
He hesitates. “It’s just… tight,” he admits. “My hip... I tweaked it a little during the third period. I should be fine after I rest for a little while and stretch.”
Ilya stares at him. “You told trainer?”
“No, it didn’t feel serious. It’s not serious,” Hollander said. “I deal with this all the time–”
Ilya rubs his forehead and sighs before he can finish. “Jesus Christ.”
He looks mildly offended. “What?”
“You are number one draft pick,” Ilya says slowly. “And you hide injury from medical staff.”
“It’s not an injury—” he starts to deny.
“Hollander.” The way Ilya says his name makes the younger man stop talking. Then Ilya sighs. “I have treatment table at my house,” he says.
Hollander blinks. “…You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” His eyebrows are scrunched together, and it’s so cute. Ilya just wants to eat him up.
“Because I played professional hockey for twenty years. I can check it,” Ilya adds calmly.
“It is probably just a tight hip flexor,” the younger hesitates. But then he says– “Your house?”
“Yes. Is not too far from here. I can drop you off at your hotel after.” Ilya hates that it looks like he’s trying too hard to get him to go back to his house.
“You’re not… kidnapping me, right?” He awkwardly asks.
Ilya stares at him. “You think I kidnap people through pharmacy?”
“…Fair point.” Then Hollander shrugs. “Okay.”
And ten minutes later, Shane Hollander is in Ilya Rozanov’s car as he drives through quiet Boston streets toward his house.
***
“Is this okay?” Ilya asks as he stretches Hollander on his stretch table.
Hollander lets out a small moan that makes Ilya’s dick jump a little. It’s extremely inconvenient because he’s changed into grey sweatpants after his shower, which seemed like a perfectly normal decision at the time. Now it feels like a tactical mistake. Because if he gets hard—and his body is clearly considering that option—it will be very obvious.
“That feels really fucking good,” Hollander says. He bites his lips, all wet and red.
Ilya forces himself to focus on the stretch. He knows what he’s doing. He’s done this hundreds of times before for teammates and younger players. Hip flexor strain, tight hamstrings, quad tension—basic maintenance for hockey players.
Still, it’s harder than usual to focus.
Partly because Hollander keeps making little noises every time Ilya adjusts the stretch. Partly because he can feel his dick hardening.
They’re in Ilya’s house, which sits in a quiet, secluded neighborhood about fifteen minutes from the training facility. It’s a huge modern place—far too large for one person—with enormous windows, five bedrooms, and enough space to host an entire team dinner if he wanted to.
He bought it for privacy. Also, because he had more money than he knew what to do with. The backyard garden is the only place that he feels attached to. He takes care of it himself when he has time. It reminds him of his mother.
Hollander had nearly lost his mind when they pulled into the driveway.
“Whoa,” he’d said, staring around. “This place is insane.”
The reaction worsened when Ilya opened the five-car garage. He had all his fast, expensive cars.
Hollander had stared like a kid in a museum.
“These are all so cool,” he’d gushed. “I would never buy something like this though. I’m not sure I could handle fast cars.”
Ilya had smirked. “Yes,” he said. “You are good boy, Hollander.”
Then he led him inside, missing the faint blush spreading across the rookie’s freckled cheeks.
After that, he’d left Hollander on the couch while he showered and changed. When he returned with the stretch table and massage oil, he’d simply said:
“Take off your pants and hop on.”
Hollander only hesitated for a few seconds before he did as told.
Now, it’s been 10 minutes, and Ilya’s still stretching him out. Hollander’s hips are slick with oil. He’s making noises– moans, soft sighs, and groans–that go straight to his groin, and he has to will all of his power for his dick not to get hard.
He tries not to stare, but it’s difficult.
He’s Japanese and white–Ilya knows that from numerous reports– and the results are frankly unfair. He’s so fucking gorgeous. Mixed people always are. His best friend, Svetlana, is mixed, and she’s beautiful too.
His doe eyes pull him in. His freckles make him want to buy 10,000 rolls so he can take photos. His lips make him want to sin. His juicy, thick ass makes him want to forget all of the reasons why he shouldn’t be lusting over this 19-year-old rookie.
He is Ilya Rozanov. He is the head coach of the fucking Boston Raiders. He is highly decorated and one of the greats. Hollander was born the same year he was drafted. Hollander is 19. Hollander plays for Montreal, for fucks sake. He has the 27 minimum rule. He is not a perv–
“Oh my god,” Hollander squeaks suddenly.
Ilya freezes. “…What.”
Hollander is staring downward. “Are you hard?” His voice is squeaky.
Ilya instinctively steps back and glances down. Fuck. Yes. Very. He exhales heavily. This is unfortunate. He’s not mortified—he’s never been ashamed of his sex drive—but this situation could easily become awkward and borderline predatory.
“I can explain,” Ilya begins.
Hollander interrupts him immediately. “I don’t mind,” he says, biting his bottom lip between his lips.
The words come out quietly. Ilya stops. “…You do not mind.”
Hollander shakes his head quickly, looking flustered but strangely determined. He sits up on the stretching table. “No.” Then Hollander rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “I mean… it’s not like I’m surprised.”
Ilya blinks. “You are not surprised.” He’s parroting everything like a fucking idiot because his mind is exploding.
Hollander shakes his head again. “I noticed on the balcony.”
That memory hits Ilya instantly. The shotgun. The smoke. The way their faces were inches apart. The way Ilya had to step back before he did something stupid.
Hollander shifts awkwardly on the table. “I just figured you didn’t want to… you know… say anything.” Then he glances up. Those damn eyes. “And I didn’t want to make it weird.”
Ilya folds his arms. “You are very calm about this.”
Hollander shrugs. “Well…” He hesitates. Then he says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “I’m attracted to you, too. Too much, maybe.”
Silence fills the room. Hollander’s ears and cheeks are red now. It makes Ilya want to kiss those pouty lips.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the balcony,” the rookie admits quietly.
That confession lands harder than Ilya expects. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the faint hum of the house’s air conditioning.
Ilya stares at him. Hollander stares back, his big eyes are nervous but honest. He has those bottom-yearning eyes that Sveta jokes about.
Finally, Ilya exhales slowly. “…This is very bad idea,” he mutters.
Hollander immediately nods. “Probably.”
The sexual tension is so thick in the air that Ilya needs to do something soon, or he will lose his mind.
He steps closer again. He places one hand on the edge of the stretch table beside Hollander’s hip, leaning slightly over him. Close enough that Hollander’s eyes widen just a little.
“You are sure about this?” Ilya asks quietly.
Hollander swallows. “Yes.”
The answer is soft, but certain. That is apparently enough for Ilya to throw away all the reasons why he should not kiss Shane Hollander out the window.
Because the next thing he does is lean down and kiss him.
Hollander makes a small, surprised sound against his mouth, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into it, one hand grabbing instinctively at the front of Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya tastes the faint sweetness on Hollander’s lips the moment they meet.
They’re softer than he expected—warm, pliant—and Hollander melts into the kiss almost immediately, like he’d been waiting for it. For someone who had looked so shy a few minutes ago, he kisses with surprising eagerness, leaning into Ilya as if gravity has suddenly shifted toward him.
It steals the breath from Ilya’s lungs.
He has kissed a lot of people in his life. More than he could ever count. Confident people, bold people, reckless people. None of them has felt quite like this.
Ilya’s hand slides to the side of Hollander’s neck, steady and warm, his thumb resting just beneath his jaw as he deepens the kiss. Hollander makes a quiet moan into his mouth as Ilya sucks his tongue. He tilts his head instinctively, giving Ilya more room, trusting him to take the lead. He follows Ilya’s rhythm easily, yielding in a way that makes something hot and dangerous coil low in Ilya’s stomach. There’s no hesitation in the way he responds. So submissive.
It drives Ilya a little insane. Their mouths move together slowly at first, learning the shape of each other.
Hollander’s breath catches when Ilya presses closer, the kiss grows deeper and hungrier. His fingers twist in the front of Ilya’s shirt like he needs something to anchor himself, like he’s afraid he might drift away otherwise.
For a moment, the world narrows to nothing but warmth and breath and the quiet sound of Hollander’s exhale against his mouth.
And Ilya realizes, with a flicker of disbelief—
He could very easily become addicted to this. These soft lips. These moans. This rookie.
When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing a little harder.
Hollander stares up at him, eyes wide. “…Wow,” he says.
Ilya huffs a quiet laugh, sucking and placing a soft kiss on Hollander’s jaw before stepping back half a pace.
“Yes,” he says dryly. “Wow is accurate description.”
Hollander grins a little, cheeks and ears still flushed. His lips are so beautiful and swollen from all the tugging and sucking. “You kissed me first.”
Ilya raised his eyebrows. “You said you were attracted to me.”
“I didn’t think you’d immediately attack me,” the rookie sputtered.
“I asked you if it was okay,” Ilya says calmly. "I showed restraint before."
Hollander snorts. “Sure you did.”
Oh, if only he knew how much restraint Ilya needed to have just so he wouldn’t dick him down right now on his table. His ass was calling for Ilya to claim it.
For a moment, they just look at each other again. Then Ilya gestures toward the table.
“Lie back down.”
Hollander blinks. “…What?”
Hollander gives him a suspicious look but settles back onto the stretch table anyway, propping himself up on his elbows.
“You’re very bossy,” he mutters.
“I am coach,” Ilya replies simply as if that explains everything. He picks up the oil again and presses his hands back against Hollander’s hips, carefully working the muscle while keeping his expression neutral.
“Your hip is still problem,” he says. “And if Montreal’s medical staff finds out I made injury worse, they will murder me.”
Hollander snorts.
“Pretty sure they’d just be mad.”
Ilya hums under his breath. “Yes. Mad.” He presses into the tight muscle again, stretching the joint slowly.
What he does not say is that if anyone finds out Hollander—the nineteen-year-old star rookie for Montreal—came back to his house and ended up kissing him on a stretch table, the consequences would be… considerably worse than “mad.”
Boston’s management would lose its mind. Montreal’s management might try to set him on fire. The league would probably put his head on the chopping block, but not chop it off yet. They wouldn't fire him, but they'd give him a lecture and a warning.
Hollander shifts slightly when Ilya adjusts the stretch.
“Okay, yeah,” he says with a breathy laugh. “That one hurts.”
“Good,” Ilya says calmly. “Means I am fixing it.”
“You have a very weird definition of fixing.”
Ilya smirks faintly but keeps working, carefully rotating the hip and stretching the muscle again. “Next time,” he adds dryly, “you tell your trainer when something hurts.”
Hollander glances at him. “You just kissed me like you needed my lips to survive minutes ago, and you’re lecturing me now.”
“Yes.”
“That seems unfair," he says with a grin. His lips curl adorably.
Ilya stares down at those lips and shrugs. “Life is unfair.”
It really is. Why can't he fuck Shane Hollander without messing up his life?