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In Shanes more formative years, he typically strayed away from the hustle and bustle of life, instead enjoying the quiet luxury of his bedroom, and an empty ice rink. When he wasnt within reach of a hockey stick, his less "reckless" and hostile method of energy release was to listen to music. The amount of music that he had was not large, infact, it mostly consisted of four artists, and about 12 songs total. Things that he was familar with, beats he knew by heart, and words he didnt have to think about. His mother and father both introduced him to these songs, and they stuck, a quiet glue within the melodies, and a relaxing tune that made his nerves feel less like they were on fire.
When he didn't have the possibility of his bedroom, he was at the rink, practicing drills, and his motions on the ice, the music swelled in his ears, ready to burst, the notes louder than his thoughts, drowning out his mind, letting his body do all of the work. On the ice, he didn't typically have the affordability to mess up, his inability immeadilty dampened his ability-to some. The quiet roar of his skates on the ice muted by his music, the body taking control away from the mind and letting the moves flow through his body, the lack of awareness he could never typically afford, a luxury he lacked in games. He hated skating without his music, but it was something he could live without if it meant that he got to play professionally.
His mind wandered on the ice, straying away from his self-imposed drills. He thought about a lot of things, and nothing at all. He thought about the music, he thought about his parents, he thought about scouts, he thought about Ottawa, his home town, he thought about Montreal, he thought about the draft, he thought about what round he would be in, what he would be overall, he thought about the combine, and school, he thought about his friends back home, he thought about his girlfriend, how she was doing, how he was a shit boyfriend for not texting her back, he thought about breaking up with her, he thought about who would also be in the draft.
As his mind wandered, and moved around the rink, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, someone was watching him. He thought about ignoring the presence at the other end of the rink, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he folded. Immeasurably, he regretted his decision.
Ilya Rozanov stood on the other end of the rink, in joggers and a black zip up hoodie. Shane, quite taken aback, scoffed, and then promptly, his blade caught the edge of the ice, and he went down like a sack of potatos.
"You fall for me already, Hollander." Rozanov yelled over to Shane. Lightly laughing at the stark lack of coordination from the other man. But Shane didn't hear him.
Shane ripped out his headphones, surprised that Rozanov would talk to him.
"What?" Shane yelled to the other man.
"You have legs like baby deer, Bambi," Rozanov yelled instead of restating his previous words.
"Fuck off," Shane shot back, "How did you even get in here?" He volleyed back. He noticed that Rozanov's accent was think, washing over him in waves. He wondered where Rozanov was from, where he grew up, what part of Russia.
"Not like door is locked, yes?"
Why was he thinking about where Rozanov grew up?
Shane thought for a moment, and then nodded in acknowledgement. "Were you going to practice? I can go if you'd like it's fin-" Shane stuttered out, finally trying to get back to his feet after his brief bout with the ice.
"Hollander, Hollander, is fine. Was just seeing competition, free country, right?"
"Oh so you can't beat me without knowing my moves, what a shocking observation."
Rozanov squinted, like he was trying to decode what Shane was saying, taking a long time to answer, Shane skated over more towards Rozanov's general vicinity,
so they wouldn't be yelling from across the ice.
"What does- that word, obser-va-tion" Rozanov asks Shane.
"An observation is like something you can see, in a way, to observe something, which is the root of the word, it means to watch over something, to ana- to look at something closely. To zoom in on it." Shane explains to Rozanov, rambling on.
"Ah, obervation-you listen to music, yes?" He says as he looks down to the MP3 player in Shanes hand.
Shane looks down, seeing the player in his hand, and nods, before he looks back up at Ilya. "Yes, like that."
"Oh, okay, I get," Rozanov nods back, in understanding. "You talk fast, like speedskater, is-" He says again, before stopping, trying to find the english word.
"Confusing?" Shane supplies, and Rozanov snaps his fingers at Shane.
"Yes, that!" He wags his finger at Shane.
Shane smiled, reserved. A moment of silence between the two as they simply stare at one another.
"We see eachother at draft, yes?" Rozanov says, softer, to Shane.
"Yes, I suppose we will, Rozanov."
Rozanov tuts, barely caught by Shane. "Hollander, you bore me."
Shane scoffs, "Fuck you,"
Rozanov smiles, laughing lightly.