Chapter Text
Shane sat in the stands, the unforgiving plastic of the seat pressed against his back as his eyes tracked across the ice below him. The string of his hooded sweatshirt sat between his teeth, the plastic tip rolling across his tongue. He bit down hard, relishing the feel of the pressure in his jaw.
"That one. Right there. Number 81," his mother was saying next to him, "See him?"
Shane did see him. He couldn't help but to see him. Not only did this particular player tower over the rest of his teammates, he was also skating circles around them. The Russians were good, there was no doubt about that. Shane was almost certain it would come down to them and Canada in the finals of the World Junior Championships.
But this guy was better than good. He was incredible.
"He's really something, isn't he?"
On the ice, Number 81 raised his stick and slapped a puck into the net almost faster than Shane's eyes could catch it. He skated it off with almost no reaction. It was just a scrimmage, but still. He showed no sign of emotion whatsoever. Like a machine.
"Yeah," Shane exhaled, sinking down further in the seat, "he is."
--
When the Russians cleared off the ice and the Danish team skated on, Shane and his mom went down to tunnels to wait outside the locker room, trying to catch Number 81. After twenty minutes had gone by and he hadn't made an appearance, Shane started to feel like a creep just standing there. So, he told his mom he was going out for some air and headed for the exit.
The second he stepped outside, the cold wind flowed over him like a balm. It had been hot in there, too much, down by the locker rooms where the air was thick with sweat and heavy breathing. Shane remembered what that was like, back when he was the one in those rooms. He remembered how nervous it made him.
He was glad for the fresh air now. The parking lot was quiet and empty. A bus idled at the other end of the lot, parking waiting to bring the Russian players back to their hotel. The sound of a lighter clicking pulled his attention and his head turned involuntarily toward the source.
And there he was. Number 81. With a cigarette in his mouth, standing directly below a NE PAS FUMER sign.
"Ilya Rozanov." Shane was walking over with his hand stretched out in front of him before he'd even realized he was moving. "Right?"
Of course he was Ilya Rozanov. Everyone knew that. He was one of the most talked about hockey prospects in the world. And for good reason.
"You are an awesome player to watch," Shane continued breathlessly. Rozanov stared blankly back at him. "I was just inside, watching you. I'm here with my mom, she's an agent."
He was rambling and he could feel it. Why wasn’t Rozanov saying anything? Why was Shane feeling so nervous?
Was he... a little bit… starstruck?
"I'm Shane, by the way," he finished lamely. He wanted to steal some stick tape and use it to seal his mouth shut.
Mercifully, the corner of the other boy's lips twitched a little. Not quite a smile, but something like it. Shane felt himself breathe again. Rozanov stuck his hand out to return the shake. "Thank you," he said at last. His voice was deep, much deeper than Shane's. And his accent was incredibly thick. His words sounded like they were coated in molasses.
He released Shane's hand and took a drag from his cigarette. Shane watched the way his lips wrapped around the filter on the end of stick, then went slack as he exhaled a soft plume of smoke.
It was a good thing he found cigarettes completely disgusting.
Rozanov caught him staring, and his non-smile grew bigger. It could reasonably be called a half-smile now. "You are... team Canada?" he asked, pointing his cigarette at Shane.
"Oh no," Shane exhaled, almost laughing, adjusting his toque down lower, "I mean, I used to play, but--"
Just then, the double doors behind them opened with a loud crash. Shane's head jerked back in their direction and found his mother exiting the building. She look around for a moment before her eyes landed on Shane. "Oh, there you are," she said with a serene smile.
She approached him with her signature sense of surety, never a step out of place. As she did, she noticed the boy standing behind Shane, and her expression quickly changed into something much more shark-like.
Without missing a beat, she sidestepped her son and locked in on her target, pinning him to the spot with a confident stare and another outstretched hand. "You're Ilya Rozanov! I'm Yuna Hollander, it's a pleasure to meet you."
Rozanov took the hand, nodding slowly as he did. Shane couldn't tell whether his mom was talking too fast or if her energy was just intimidating. Maybe both.
"Nice... to meet you," the Russian responded after a moment, as if meting out his words.
"Listen, I'm sure you're being approached from all sides by potential representatives," Yuna barreled on, "but I want to tell you why I think I would be the right fit to be your agent. Now, I'm not affiliated with any of those big agencies, it's true. But my modestly-sized client list would allow me to devote the majority of my energy and focus to you. Which is exactly what you need at this pivotal moment in your career."
Now Shane could tell that his mom was talking too fast. Rozanov's lips were pursed around his cigarette, his brows matching so that his whole face was sort of scrunched into a perfect picture of confusion. And he couldn't say how good the guy's English was, but Shane felt pretty sure that words like affiliated and pivotal might be outside the scope of his hockey-centric vocabulary lessons.
"Mom, give him your card," Shane whispered helpfully.
"Oh, yes." Yuna reached into her purse, retrieving a small card from her wallet. She proffered it to Rozanov while smiling back at her son over her shoulder. "Good idea, sweetie."
Annoyingly, Shane felt himself blush at the endearment. He felt a little sheepish, having his mom here. But he couldn’t say why it embarrassed him. After all, she was why they were there in the first place. For her to land her dream client.
There was no bigger hockey fan than Yuna Hollander. Shane loved the sport with every fibre of his being, his dad did too, but somehow it was different for his mom. She lived for it. Ate, breathed, slept hockey. And she had an incredible aptitude for it, an uncanny sense of prediction. She could always tell when a player was hiding an injury, or about to throw down their gloves, and she had a 98% accuracy rate of predicting the winner of the Stanley Cup each year (and she'd never forgive Edmonton for costing her that precious 2%).
So when she predicted that Ilya Rozanov was going to be the number one draft pick this year, Shane and David believed her. And that's why they've driven almost five hours to Toronto to watch a bunch of teenagers practice hockey. So she could get the jump.
Rozanov turned the card over in his hands as he stomped out the remainder of his cigarette. The lines of his forehead smoothed as he muttered, "Ah, you are agent."
Yuna nodded, an unassailable grin plastered across her face. "Yes. And if you're open to it, I'd love to buy you lunch and discuss the future of your career."
The hockey player considered this. He looked down at the card again, and then raised his head and stared directly at Shane. "This is your mother?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah?" Shane could not see how that information would provide any helpful context.
Rozanov looked to Yuna and then back to Shane. "Okay," he acquiesced. "Lunch."
---
Yuna had asked Rozanoz what kind of food he liked to eat, and he had replied simply "American", which was funny, considering they were in Canada. But whatever. He expounded on that by specifying "burgers", so now they were at something classified as a gastropub not far from downtown Toronto.
“Is this your first time in Canada?” Shane’s mother asked cheerily, sipping from her tall plastic cup of water. She’d clued into the fact that Rozanov’s English was still a bit rough, so was speaking at an easier pace and deliberately spacing out her words. Not so much as to sound condescending, but enough to be considerate.
“Yes.”
This had been the cadence of the conversation. You certainly couldn't describe Ilya Rozanov as a man of many words. But then again, Shane wasn’t incredibly talkative himself. And he couldn’t even blame it on a language barrier.
In any case, Yuna Hollander was not a woman who could be easily deterred. “And how are you liking it?” she pressed.
“Is good.” Rozanov fiddled with the napkin-wrapped silverware on the table in front of him, and then stopped suddenly, as if he had been scolded. His face softened just a bit. “Is nice. Cold, but Russia is cold too.”
“I can imagine,” Mom said with a laugh. She was so good at this. She was so good at being comfortable anywhere, with anyone, that you couldn’t help but relax in her presence. Shane couldn’t, anyways. And right now, he could see the tension in Rozanov’s shoulders melting away by increments as well.
“The coldest I’ve ever been was when my car broke down in Saskatoon during a road trip in my twenties,” she went on, “and that was more than cold enough for me. Let’s just say I won’t be planning any trips to Siberia soon.”
Rozanov relented and gave her a tiny smirk at that. “Ah, yes. Very cold there. But I am from Moscow. Not Siberia.”
She blanched a little, worried she’d committed some kind of international faux pas. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Is okay,” Rozanov interrupted, smiling just a bit again. His eyes flicked towards Shane, lingered for a moment, and then returned to the table.
Shane felt the urge to pipe up, add to the conversation, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. The curls at the corners of Rozanov’s mouth slowly flattened as he returned to neutral expression, and it felt like Shane had missed his chance.
It was then that the server arrived at the table and asked if they’d decided on what to eat.
“I will have the burger,” said Rozanov, his voice dropping another octave. He handed the menu to the server and as an afterthought, added, “please.”
Shane liked the way words sounded when they rolled off his tongue. The way the P's popped and the s's all turned into z's. Everything sounded so serious.
Maybe he should learn some Russian. He had always enjoyed learning languages. In high school, he’d picked up a bit of Japanese, and he’s really gotten into learning the mechanics of the language. Plus, if he was going to be working with hockey players, Russian would surely be a useful tongue to know.
"Shane?"
He looked up when his mom said his name and found that she, Rozanov, and the server were all staring at him, waiting. A rush of blood warmed his cheeks and he wished he could sink down under the table and hide. Instead he pulled the menu up over his face in an attempt to cover the blush.
"Um, I'll just do the grilled chicken with a side salad," he muttered, "please."
The server smiled politely. "Any dressing on that salad?"
"Oil and vinegar is fine. And can I have a ginger ale, please?"
She smiled and nodded, taking the menu from him and quickly departing. Shane shook his head, trying to dispel the feelings of awkwardness. It's not illegal to zone out. Calm down. He pinched the skin at the back of his hands a few times to center himself, and was relieved to find that it worked.
Mom looked at him and smiled, giving him arm a little rub as she stood up from the table. "I'm gonna run to the girls' room real quick, and when I come back," she leaned down and pointed at Rozanov, "we're talking business."
He nodded solemnly in response to her finger. "Okay."
And then it was just the two of them. Shane looked over at Rozanov and found that Rozanov was staring right back at him. Okay. Nothing weird about that.
He should say something. Something welcoming. What do you say to someone when it's their first time in your country? Mom already asked if he was liking it. Hockey. Shane could say something about hockey. But he'd already complimented his playing style, quite effusively, actually. Any more would seem like fangirling.
God, what did people talk about? Had Shane ever had a conversation before?
"So," Rozanov said after a long moment, "you... do not play? Hockey."
Shane relaxed, glad that the burned of conversation had been lifted from him- even if he felt like a bad host now. But, he'd take what he could get.
He straightened in his chair and looked up into Rozanov's eyes. "No, I don't. Not anymore. I used to play, and I was actually pretty good. I was actually great, to be honest. I played for Team Canada in the World Juniors two years ago. But then, um." He had to look away. "I got a pretty bad injury, and I couldn't play after that."
Rozanov furrowed his brows. "You got hurt?"
Shane scratched his head, shrugging. "Yeah. I shattered my knee pretty bad." And then, because he wasn't sure if it would translate, he said, "I mean I broke my knee. Enough that playing professionally wasn't really an option anymore."
Rozanov's brow furrow deepened. He leaned over so that he could peer under the table, presumably to get a glimpse at the knee in question. Shane didn't adjust his posture - there wasn't really anything to see.
"Does it still hurt?" Rozanov asked, staring at Shane with something like... concern? worry? Shane couldn't say. It was a lot more than he expected from someone he met less than an hour ago.
"No," he answered simply, not breaking eye contact, "It doesn't hurt that much."
They let that hang there, in the air for a moment, locked in a staring contest neither seemed to be willing to lose. It felt like several minutes elapsed, but it could have been just a few seconds, before they were interrupted by the server dropping off Shane's ginger ale.
He shook himself loose and thanked her again, and when he looked back at Rozanov, his expression had shifted. He was looking away now, playing with his napkin again.
Shane leaned forward and took a sip from his soda. It was cool and refreshing. He liked the way it burned just a little bit in his throat. "And you?" he said after another moment. "You like playing hockey?"
Rozanov stared at him with more confusion than he'd displayed so far that day. "Like?" he repeated, as if the question didn't make sense.
And maybe it didn't.
But there was no time for Shane to think about it any further, because his mother was back from the bathroom and she was firing off questions like it was her job to do it. Which, hopefully, it would be, Shane guessed.
"Alright, Rozanov," she said, and before she could get any further, he interrupted her.
"Ilya, please."
"Sorry, Ilya. Of course." She leaned in and tented her hands together. Shane recognized it as her I mean business pose. She often struck the same one when she was on a hot streak in Yahtzee. "So, you're going to be the number on draft pick in June."
And without a hint of irony, Rozanov replied, "Yes."
What a little shit, Shane thought. Or he would be. If he wasn't right.
Yuna nodded, seemingly glad that they were in agreement. "Where are you hoping to end up?"
Rozanov hummed as he considered this, as if he hadn't really thought about it before. Which, of course, he had. He must have. If he was like any of the other hockey players had ever met, he'd been dreaming of that moment for years.
He took a sip of his Coke and swallowed. "I think Boston. A few other teams I like: Detroit, Pittsburgh. But Boston is... a good... sports city."
Shane couldn't help himself. "No Canadian teams?" he asked, chewing on his lip. He hoped it came off light and teasing, but he sometimes struggled to strike the right tone when he was joking. He wasn't very good at being funny.
But Rozanov caught his eye grinned, really grinned, for the first time that day. He shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe Montreal."
"You know," Yuna chimed in, finding her moment, "The Voyageurs are the franchise with the most wins in all of sports."
Rozanov turned from Shane to his mother and merely said, "Yes, I know," his grin already fading away.
"Better than the freaking Yankees," smiled Shane.
And Rozanov laughed. He actually laughed. Shane felt pretty proud of himself for that.
"But, no matter where you end up," Yuna continued, "you're going to be a big deal. There'll be a lot of momentum for you to capitalize on. And you won't want to be in Russia for that."
Rozanov was back to looking confused. Shane wasn't sure, but thought he noticed the tiniest flinch at the mention of his home country. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean from the moment you get signed in June, you will be in demand for brand deals, partnerships, endorsements, so many marketing opportunities. And I think you should be here, in North America, so you can seize those opportunities."
Rozanov was a little dumbfounded. "You think I should stay here... in Canada... for the summer?"
"Yes," Yuna sat back, apparently having dropped her trump card. "In fact, I think you should stay with us."
When his mom had first suggested this plan, a few weeks ago, Shane hadn't been shocked at all. It was perfectly normal for Canadian families to house young hockey players while they were on the road. He'd never had a billet family himself, but only because he was an only child with protective parents who insisted on traveling everywhere with him. So they had always stayed in hotels, together.
But it felt different now. Now that he'd seen Rozanov in the flesh, and he'd seen what an unbelievable player he was, and how gigantic his stature was, it made the proposal feel a bit silly. It didn't feel like they were suggesting a young kid come crash with them while he played Junior A.
Now it felt like they were asking a grown man, a top athlete in his sport, to spend his last summer of freedom before being drafted into the NHL, at their cabin in Lanaudière. Sleeping in... the basement?
Shane wished he could pull his mom aside and tell her to take it back. They should suggest he get an apartment in New York, to be closer for commercial shoots, or maybe even in Toronto. But stay at their house? When he hears it back now, it sounds so freaking stupid.
When he finally brought himself to look over at Rozanov, to try and see if he was completely offended by the idea, maybe about to storm out of the restaurant and never come back, he was surprised to find that he appeared completely unphased. In fact, he was looking right at Shane again, with a placid, considerate look on his face.
He took another sip of his Coke. "I will think about this."
Yuna breathed a barely audible sigh of relief. "Of course. Take your time. It's a big decision, and you've got a lot of those coming up." She inhaled deeply, a sly glint shining in her eyes. "Now, let me tell you about some of the brands I think would be best suited for you."
Their food arrived at the table while she listed off a seemingly never-ending list of brands of sports apparel, footwear, jewelry, cologne and even cars (this one genuinely made Rozanov's whole face light up). Shane was grateful for the momentary reprieve, glad that he didn't need to talk anymore, and that he could safely hide behind his fork the smile that he couldn't seem to shake off.
--
Two weeks later, Shane and his dad were playing cards at the kitchen table after dinner. In walked his mom, with her blackberry in her hands and a smug, shit-eating grin on her face. Shane suspected the cause, but found that he was scared to say it out loud. If it wasn't true, he wasn't sure how he'd live with the disappointment.
"Good news?" asked Dad, even-tempered, as he dealt another hand to Shane.
"Well, I think so," said Mom gleefully. She placed her hands on her hips and continued, "It looks like we're going to have to make up the guest room."
Shane's heart started to beat faster in his chest. He rubbed his palms against his thighs and asked, "Does that mean...?"
Yuna could barely contain herself when she interrupted him and proudly asked, "Guess who just signed Ilya Rozanov?"