Chapter Text
December 2001 – Ottawa, Canada
Tomorrow is going to be the best day of Shane Hollander’s life. Well, until he got drafted no. 1 to the NHL and won the Stanley Cup. And the Calder Trophy. So, there would probably be a lot more best days to come, but this would definitely be the best day yet.
The World Juniors Hockey Championship was being held in Ottawa for the first time in ages, and Shane’s parents had surprised him with tickets to watch the finals that take place today and tomorrow. That would have been incredible either way, but the fact that Team Canada would be competing to make the gold medal game today, and were a favourite to win the whole thing when they played tomorrow made it even more incredible.
So, maybe today was going to be the best day of Shane Hollander’s life, and then tomorrow would be the new best day of Shane Hollander's life.
Semantics aside, Shane was already awake at 7am, with the Team Canada zip up and toque his parents had given him sitting on his desk chair ready to be worn later in the day. He was buzzing with excitement; sure, he’d been watching whatever TV coverage he could find of the World Juniors ever since he was 5, but there was something truly electric about being able to watch Hockey in person. The chill of the ice and the adrenaline sweeping through the arena paired with the determination roiling from the players was unmatched.
Some of Shane’s teammates were also going to watch the matches today, the preliminary finals to determine which teams would play in the gold medal game tomorrow, but none Shane was particularly excited to see. Even though he was only 10, he held a singular interest in hockey that ostracized him from his peers, somehow that included his teammates.
But, as he told himself often, they would never make it to the NHL with that mindset, and he was going to be the greatest hockey player the world had ever seen.
-
“Sveta, stop hogging the popcorn!” Ilya Rozanov reached over his best friend to steal a handful of the aforementioned popcorn as she attempted to swat his hand away. Svetlana squawked in indignation as Ilya practically climbed on top of her in his efforts. He was batting at the hand trying to intervene, when suddenly he lost his balance and tumbled off of Sveta and into the footwell of the seats, managing to take the entire bucket of popcorn with him.
He shot Sveta what he could only hope was a scary glance before they both broke out in laughter, garnering several disdained looks from the people surrounding them. Oh well, he thought, they’re just boring Canadians.
Ilya was at the rink, waiting for the first game between Team Russia and Team America to start. It was still about 5 minutes before even warmups began, so he didn’t know why everyone was so annoyed at the noise he and Sveta were making. It’s not like they were interrupting the game.
Maybe it was the fact that they were two seemingly unaccompanied Russian 10-year-olds, one of whom was now covered in popcorn.
Never mind that they weren’t even unaccompanied, Sveta’s father Sergei Vetrov, goalie coach for Team Russia, was giving them a pointed look from where he was sitting in the coach’s box.
When Svetlana had asked Ilya if he wanted to come to Canada to watch the World Juniors, he was hesitant. It’s not that he didn’t want to go, he loved Hockey and craved the opportunity to experience it outside of Moscow. But if it meant being subjected to his father and brother without his mother’s intervention for the full two weeks of the trip, he would have rathered to stay home. Thankfully, the invitation was just for him, Sergei was only able to bring a certain number of plus ones with him. Ilya only made the cut because his spot was originally for Sveta’s older sister who decided not to come at the last minute.
Ilya had been worried about leaving his mother at home alone, his father and brother weren’t very nice to her, she tried to shield him from it, but there was only so much that makeup could do in the face of constant shouting matches and the sound of a palm connecting with skin. His mother had insisted he go, and ensured him that she would be okay, she just wanted him to have a good time.
“See what it’s like outside of here,” she’d said. He wasn’t sure if she meant outside of Moscow, Russia, or just outside of their home.
Ilya was still sitting on the ground, trying to shake excess popcorn out of his hair and off his jacket when he heard someone speak.
“Sorry, could we just squeeze past?” Ilya looked up to see a woman with warm eyes and a soft smile motioning just beyond where he sat. He didn’t know much English at all, but after a week and a half in Canada, he was fairly certain he knew what sorry meant, as well as that Canadians say it far too much. Paired with the gestures she was making, he gathered that she and the man and boy behind her wanted him to move out of their way.
Ilya quickly scurried to his seat, bowing his head in a sort of apology and sunk into his shoulders as he sat down. The family, as he now decided them to be, sat just next to the mess he and Sveta had made, meaning he was now directly next to the woman who had just seen him covered in popcorn.
He tried not to make it obvious as he watched the boy with them out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to be about Ilya’s age, although Ilya was taller, and he had dark hair and his tanned skin was covered in tiny freckles. The boy turned and offered Ilya a small smile as Ilya felt his face flush – no, his face didn’t flush, Russian’s don’t blush – and he returned his gaze to the ice in front of him.
-
“See Shane, we didn’t miss the warmups,” Yuna Hollander gave her son an ‘I told you so’ look as they sat down in their seats. Shane didn’t care, he was coursing with so much excitement and adrenaline that nothing could make him feel anything else. He was taking in as much of his surroundings as possible, analyzing the warmup routines of the Team Russia and Team America players and seeing what he could implement into his own. He had tried to do some research on both teams, but it was hard to get information about the Russian team that wasn’t in Russian or poorly translated, and the American team was fairly non-descript. He remembered there was a particularly good defenseman, but given that he was a forward center, the position didn’t pique his interest.
What did pique his interest, was the two kids sitting in the seats next to his mom, one over from Shane. The girl had tanned skin and dark, curly hair tucked under a Team Russia toque, while the boy had dark blond curls falling in his bright blue eyes, currently with some popcorn stuck in it. If the toque wasn’t enough, the way that the boy had looked a little bug eyed when Yuna had spoken to them, and the slightly gibberish sounding mutterings were clear indications that they were Russian.
He turned his head to get a better look at the pair and noticed the boy staring at him. Shane wasn’t sure what to do, so he gave him a little smile. Clearly that was the wrong choice because he turned away almost immediately.
"Where do you think their parents are?” Yuna whispered loudly across Shane to David, attempting to subtly indicate to the two kids with her head.
“I’m not sure Yuna,” David hushed back, “But maybe don’t talk about them when they’re right next to us,”
“Oh shush, I’m only whispering,” David shot Shane a look that made him stifle a giggle, if there was one thing Yuna Hollander was bad at, it was whispering subtly. “And besides, I don’t think they really understand English,”
“It’s not our business anyway Yuna,”
“I only want to make sure that they’re okay,” Yuna was being slightly defensive, “I mean, who leaves two kids alone in a country where they don’t speak the language and are surrounded by strangers actively rooting against their country,”
David acquiesced slightly, seeming to understand her point. Shane wanted to point out that he wasn’t a kid, and so they weren’t kids either because they seemed to be the same age. But he thought that wouldn’t really help. Apparently, as he had learned, pointing out that you’re not a kid only makes grown-ups think of you as more of a kid.
But Yuna Hollander isn’t someone to let things go, so before Shane or David could stop her, she had turned to the not-kids, “Are you two here on your own?”
Based on the confused expressions, Yuna had been right when she guessed they didn’t speak much English. The girl seemed to grasp a few of the words and pointed across to the Team Russia coach’s box, and spoke in stilted English, “My father coach,” she tried.
Yuna hummed in understanding, “Is anyone else watching you?” she seemed concerned that someone would leave the two to their own devices. Even if there was an adult in the coach’s box, that wasn’t exactly within easy access if there was some kind of emergency.
The girl just scrunched up her face slightly and repeated, “my father coach.”
Shane understood, he wasn’t sure why his mom didn’t, her dad was one of the Team Russia coaches, but no one else was watching them.
Yuna must have finally put it together because she ahhed. However, she continued to talk at the pair, “do you like hockey?”
This was the first indication that the boy understood any form of English, or maybe the word hockey just sounded the same in Russian, because he perked up at replied, “Da, yes, very much good hockey,”
Shane’s eyes widened with fear as he recognised the expression on his mother’s face, the same she got whenever she tried to encourage Shane to make friends with his teammates. “Well, Shane also loves hockey! Maybe you three could watch together?” She didn’t wait for the confused expression to drop from the boy’s face before she was standing up and ushering Shane to do the same, “Shane, why don’t you swap seats with me so you can sit next to a new friend?”
Shane was only 10, but suddenly he hoped spontaneous combustion was possible, and he understood why sometimes people murdered their own mothers.
Still, he allowed himself to be shuffled into his mother’s seat and was somewhat pressed up against the curly haired boy.
-
Ilya was not sure why this woman was moving seats, forcing her son to sit next to Ilya. Did Ilya smell? No, she was smiling too much for that to be the reason. He shot a questioning look to Sveta and received a matching puzzled response. So much for her being better at English. Ilya gathered based upon the way the woman nudged her son towards him that maybe she was encouraging him to interact. His own mother does that from time to time.
His assumptions were correct as the woman spoke, “My name is Yuna, this is my son Shane,” Ilya could pick out enough words to know that her name was Yuna, and something about the sun? or maybe it was a star? Was she trying to say the boy with her was a star? And what did shane mean?
The boy stuck out his hand, it was a bit of an awkward, squishy angle, but Ilya recognised the gesture, “My name is Shane,” he spoke slowly and clearly, answering Ilya’s previous shane-related language questions.
Ilya had never really spoken much English, but he knew enough to grasp Shane’s hand and respond, “My name is Ilya, this is my french Svetlana.” Something about their expressions told him that he may have screwed up some of the words. Oh well, he was pretty sure they got enough correct information. Svetlana did her own introductions, probably with better English because her accent was much better than Ilyas.
Ilya wished his English was better, but when he’d asked his father if he could take English lessons, he’d gotten angry. His father had said there was no need for him to speak English, that Russian was the superior language and he wouldn’t need English when he played in the KHL. Ilya didn’t bring up the fact that he had been watching the NHL wherever he could find it – mostly at Sveta’s house – and thought it was much better than the KHL.
-
Shane was trying his best not to stare at Ilya and Svetlana; his mom always told him that staring wasn’t polite. But the Russian’s were obviously going to beat the inferior American team, and something about the boy next to him was much more interesting.
Shane knew he was a little bit too obsessed with hockey sometimes, but based on the way Ilya was muttering under his breath, eyes wide and analysing as they tracked the puck on the ice, he thought maybe Ilya was just as obsessed as he was. Svetlana was watching with a far colder, more calculated interest. If he had to guess, she was used to watching games rather than playing them, and so wasn’t bothered with trying to understand the thought process of each of the players.
It wasn’t until partway through the second period that Shane tried to talk to Ilya, he hemmed and hawed a moment before finally speaking, “Do you play hockey?”
Ilya’s eyes widened slightly as he realized he was being spoken to, and then narrowed in concentration as he tried to translate, finally landing on, “Da? Izvini, yes,” he screwed up his face again, “I play hockey. You also?”
Shane was surprised he got a response, but jumped at the opening, “Yes, I play for the Ottawa Juniors, I’m the team captain and I play as a center, and I want to play in the NHL one day.” Shane thought maybe he’d spoken too much or too fast, Ilya looked a little bewildered. But still, he seemed intent on piecing his way through Shane’s speech.
“I am same… I play middle, same as Petrov,” Ilya pointed to the Russian player on the ice, Dmitri Petrov playing center. He took another moment to think, a mischievous glint in his eye, “I am more good player.”
Shane gawked, I mean, Petrov was certainly less skilled than a lot of the centers at the competition, but for Ilya to be claiming he was better than an eighteen-year-old? He couldn’t stop himself from laughing, “No way,”
Ilya grinned, if he didn’t understand the words he definitely caught their meaning based on context. He grinned smugly, “Is true, Sveta, tell Shane I am more good,”
Shane did not take notice of how his name sounded with foreign vowel sounds.
Svetlana rolled her eyes lovingly and shrugged at Shane, “Ilya is very good, Petrov is okay,” Ilya preened under the praise, Shane took the bait.
“I bet I’m better than you are,” he crossed his arms and turned fully to face Ilya, decidedly ignoring the affectionate laughter of his parents behind him.
Ilya took a second to translate, Svetlana spoke in rushed Russian to assist. Shane could tell the moment Ilya understood what he’d said, because his grin grew broader, when he spoke, “you have proof?”
Shane grinned back, “I just know it,”
-
There was something fun about teasing this Canadian boy he’d just met, the way that his freckles grew more prominent when he scrunched up his face and he flushed when he was excited. It was very entertaining learning how to wind someone up even through a language barrier.
Ilya kept talking to Shane about the game for the rest of the second period, if there was one sector of the English language Ilya had a moderate grasp on, it was hockey talk. All of the hours of secretly watching the NHL with its English-speaking announcers and insufficient subtitles had taught him enough to be able to follow along a basic hockey conversation. Besides, the excited gasps and stressed groans of watching hockey transcended language.
Ilya had almost forgotten that Shane’s parents were even there until during the intermission between the second and third, when Shane’s dad stood up and nudged him, “Do you want some popcorn Shane?” Shane thought for a moment, eyes tracking to where there was probably still popcorn caught in Ilya’s hair or on his clothing and nodded.
“Would you like some as well?” It took Ilya a moment to understand that Shane’s dad was now talking to him. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been asked, so he turned to Sveta.
“Do you want some popcorn?” Shane’s dad clarified. Ilya knew what popcorn was after getting some earlier, but wasn’t certain he understood.
“Yes please, thank you,” At least Sveta must have understood what the man was asking.
Shane smiled and then turned to his dad, speaking in rushed English that Ilya couldn’t even hope for Sveta to understand. His dad nodded, a kind smile on his face, and then he set off through the crowd of people also heading towards the various kiosks.
Without the hockey to comment on, there was a minor lull within the conversation. Ilya blew a raspberry and kicked his legs back and forth, the scuff sounds of his sneakers against the concrete foundation of the stands teetering on too annoying, and just enough noise. His kicks stuttered a moment, and he wound up bumping his foot against Shane’s.
Ilya apologized under his breath, and Shane muttered a hurried reply. Then his foot paused in its idle movement and bumped purposefully up against Ilya’s. Ilya stilled a moment, raising his gaze from where their feet were next to each other to look at Shane, whose eyes were shining with a gleeful nervousness. Ilya laughed slightly and bumped back. Soon, the two of them were pseudo-wrestling as they jostled one another with their feet, laughing and giggling.
He thinks Svetlana is keeping some kind of score, maybe whoever gets the other furthest over the halfway mark like it’s some kind of tug of war game, and he’s pretty sure he’s winning based on the concentrated furrow of Shane’s brow. Ilya smirks and presses his thumb into the point between Shane’s eyebrows where the creases are the most pronounced and uses the surprise to pull Shane all the way out of his seat and onto the ground.
Ilya pauses for a moment, worried that maybe he’ll get in trouble because he hurt Shane, or, like Alexei, Shane would retaliate with anger rather than competitive spirit. Shane just pauses for a moment before more laughter breaks out across his freckled face. He takes a breath, and surges forward to pull Ilya down onto the ground with him and before Ilya can properly react, he’s almost lying on top of Shane where he’s sitting on the concrete.
-
When David arrives back from the kiosk, almost at the end of the intermission, Shane is fairly certain that he and Ilya were put on this Earth to cause as much havoc as possible. His Mom’s fond laughs and lightly exasperated sighs turned into slightly frustrated shushes and intense looks of ‘listen to your mother and stop making a raucous’ but Shane was having a hard time following the instruction.
“You boys okay down there?” Shane looks up from where he and Ilya are in an intense game of slap, adjudicated by Svetlana, to see his dad smiling down, holding three boxes of popcorn, and the travel sixed English-Russian dictionary Shane had asked for. Shane was glad for the fact that international tournaments like this one tried to promote cross-country relations by having branded language dictionaries for sale. Even if it did mean the dictionary would be more hockey focused than most – he and Ilya and Svetlana would probably talk more about hockey than anything else anyway.
Shane practically leapt up from the ground, almost knocking the popcorn David was holding out to him, and grasped the little dictionary like it was made of gold. Shane wrapped his arms around his dad for a hug, muttering his thanks into his sweater before sitting down on his chair and diving into the dictionary.
It only took him a few moments to realize he’d abandoned his and Ilya’s game with no reason when he looked up and saw Ilya’s puzzled face looking up at him. Well, not at him but at the book in his hands. Shane blinked and then held the book up more clearly for Ilya to see, “It’s an English to Russian dictionary!” he paused to look at the cover again, noting that the title was also written in Cyrillic, so Ilya and Svetlana must know what it was.
Ilya’s grin broke out once again, and Svetlana seemed more interested in the dictionary than she had refereeing their game. David just chuckled and passed over two of the boxes of popcorn, one buttered one salted, as Shane once again thanked him.
Svetlana smiled and offered a polite “Spasibo,” which Shane had already learnt was ‘thank you’ from the ‘good to know’ section at the start of the book. Ilya, however, seemed somehow surprised that David had followed through on his offer to buy Ilya and Svetlana popcorn as well.
He gingerly reached out to take the dictionary from Shane and studied it a moment before earnestly looking up at David and Yuna and saying, “Thank you very much, is very good.”
Yuna smiled in the way moms do when they’re torn between humor and fondness, and David even reached over to ruffle Ilya’s hair, “You’re welcome, kiddo.”
-
For the first time in Shane Hollander’s life, he didn’t care about the hockey game happening in front of him. It could have been due to the fact that the Russian team were absolutely dominating, to the point of it being almost predictably boring, but it was most likely because he’d somehow, through language barriers and his own innate awkwardness, managed to make a friend of Ilya.
They spent the whole third period barely watching the game, only stopping their dictionary-assisted conversation when Svetlana or Yuna nudged them to watch a particularly interesting moment. Ilya didn’t even seem all that excited when Russia won 5-1, “We are best, of course we win,” he sounded out with the help of the book.
“We beat you tomorrow,” Shane replied in his own stilted attempt at Russian. Ilya only laughed a little bit at his poor pronunciation.
Yuna and David made concerned whispers when Svetlana’s dad didn’t come and check on them in the 2 hours between the Russia/America game ending and warmups for the Canada/Sweden game beginning, but let Shane drag Svetlana and Ilya with them to the little semi-circle of food trucks outside the rink for dinner.
Svetlana had pulled out a purse with a few rumbled Canadian bills and bought herself and Ilya some pirozhki from the Russian vendor, which they made Shane try. In turn, Shane hauled them over to the poutine stand and went to bat for Canada’s national dish but had to admit that something about pirozhki might have poutine beat. Shane even recruited the power of Svetlana’s clearly practiced puppy-dog eyes to convince his parents to let him get Dip n Dots with Svetlana and Ilya, and the three of them made a game of doing trick shots to catch the little spheres of ice cream at increasingly concerning distances.
Then David made the mistake of pointing out the maple taffy cart.
Shane practically pulled Svetlana and Ilya over as he ran to join the line.
“It’s the best thing ever,” Shane assured the pair as they all watched their icy breath in the air, “it’s like sweet and chewy and sticky but also just really perfect and so cool to make!”
Based on the expressions, Shane probably should have slowed down and chosen less words, “Is good?” Ilya asked, and Shane nodded profusely.
“The best,”
“So is same as me then,” Ilya smirked.
“No, same as me,” Shane snarked back with a grin.
“Is just brown juice?” Svetlana asked, skepticism written on her face, “On snow?”
“That’s the best part!” Shane assured, “You pour-” he took a moment to check for the words in the dictionary, “pour the maple syrup – maple syrup on the snow and it turns into taffy – taffy,”
Over the course of dinner, and most of the Canada/Sweden game, Shane had decided that he and Ilya were definitely friends. He’d already learned that Ilya was also a center, and captain of his team, and that, like Shane, he wanted to play in the NHL one day – apparently his dad wanted him to play in the KHL but Ilya thought the NHL was better (it was) – but he also knew that Ilya’s favourite colour was orange, he’d always wanted a dog, he had a mom who he loved, and an older brother and father who were only okay, and he lived in Moscow in an apartment near Svetlana.
Shane had told Ilya how he was an only child, but he didn’t mind it because sometimes other kids were hard to talk to, his favourite colour was blue because that was the Montreal Voyageurs main colour, and they were his mom’s favourite team, but his favourite team was the Ottawa Centaurs like his dad because it was his hometown, even if they weren’t very good. He’d never thought about having a pet, but maybe a cat would be cool, and he loved his Nana even when she tried to give him hockey tips that weren’t very good.
-
Ilya wasn’t sure when the last time he felt this happy was. This genuinely carefree, without anyone breathing down his neck or telling him to do better and be better. The maple taffy was a bit sweeter than Ilya expected, but the surprising warmth of something so recently coated in snow was welcome in the cold. Shane had gotten some stuck in his sleeves and Ilya had teased him about it, which garnered him a laugh.
Sveta’s father wasn’t expecting them back at the bus bays until after the Canada/Sweden game, with express instructions not to bother him before then and so he was enjoying the lack of adult supervision. Although Shane’s parents were keeping an eye on them, they seemed really nice, and willing to let him, Shane, and Sveta run amok as long as they weren’t bothering others.
The Canada/Sweden game was just as Shane had predicted, a shut out game after Sweden’s star center was injured in one of the previous games. Ilya was awed at the way Shane was able to commentate the game with the same expertise as the NHL commentators Ilya was used to.
“You be commentator, not player,” Ilya shrugged to Shane, “better for you,”
“Better for you, more like,” Ilya was alarmingly jealous at how easily Shane had picked up Russian phonemes over the past two hours of owning a dictionary, “not have me beating you,”
Ilya rolled his eyes to hide his smile as Sveta laughed at the dig.
Once the game had finished, and Ilya and Sveta were about to make their way towards the meeting spot, Shane tapped Ilya on the shoulder, “Will you be here tomorrow?” Ilya thought maybe he looked hopeful.
Ilya nodded, “Yes, same seats,”
Shane’s shoulders relaxed as a grin spread across his face, “Me too! Same seats!”
Ilya thought for a moment, and turned to Sveta, trying to get her to read his mind in a brief moment. Either the mind reading worked or Sveta simply wanted Ilya to get a move on because she nodded. Ilya turned back to Shane.
“You come early? We can get on ice before game. Sveta’s father…” Ilya couldn’t find the English words to finish the sentence but hoped the idea got across. Shane’s eyes widened with his smile as he turned to his parents, a pleading look on his face.
“You’re sure?” Shane’s mother – Yuna, Ilya had learned – seemed skeptical.
Sveta stepped in, “We always do, father lets us.” That wasn’t a complete lie, they did do it often, but Sergei wasn’t aware every time.
David – Shane’s dad – put a hand on Yuna’s shoulder, “He’ll probably drag us here early anyway, may as well let him see what happens,” Ilya hoped that the shrug of his shoulders meant he was convincing his wife to agree.
Shane was practically vibrating, he turned to Ilya, “What time? I’ll bring my skates,”
Ilya smiled, “12 o’clock,”
-
Okay, so now this was definitely going to be the best day of Shane Hollander’s life, maybe even the day he went no.1 in the NHL draft wouldn’t top this because he was finally – finally – on the ice with someone who could compete with him.
Shane and Yuna had turned up at the rink at precisely 11:45, with David planning to come down later after finishing some housework. At exactly 12:00, a side door had squeaked open and Ilya’s curly head had popped out, ushering Shane and Yuna in with a smile. Svetlana led the way, Shane knew most of the facility inside and out because of the various tours his hockey team had gotten to have of the senior rink, but clearly Svetlana had most of the staff wrapped around her finger because they all recognised her and no one questioned the group as they weaved through various corridors.
When they’d come through the entrance onto the ice Shane had stood for a moment, dumbfounded. He’d seen the ice before from the stands, and from a closer vantage point on the team tours, but he’d never actually gotten to skate on it before. He breathed in the crisp air and the unmistakable taste of hockey ice, and threw himself onto one of the benches to put on his skates.
And now, he and Ilya were racing up and down the rink at breakneck speed, Svetlana only just trailing behind, but keeping a respectable pace for the figure skates Shane noticed she was wearing. He knew, absently, that his mom was somewhere in the stands, probably with her embarrassing camera out, recording as he flew across the ice, but he didn’t care.
Shane was already so used to outpacing his peers in every way, only ever finding competition in the under 15s groups who made fun of him for his eyes and how he was a bit smaller than they were. As if he had control over his eye shape and it wasn’t expected for a 10-year-old to be smaller than 14-year-olds. Oh well, he beat them most of the time anyway.
But Ilya, who was not only Shane’s age, but 36 days younger than he was, was somehow managing to keep up. Not only that, but he’d beaten Shane so many times that they were tied across each of the little competitions they’d had. Shane was annoyed that they didn’t bring hockey sticks onto the ice with them; he was so sure he would be able to show Ilya up with his stick handling. Or maybe he wouldn’t, everything about Ilya so far had gone toe-to-toe with Shane, so maybe they’d be equal in that as well. That was just as exciting.
By the time that the Zamboni drivers came out to kick the off and level the ice before warmups started, Shane and Ilya were lying down on the ice, puffed out and watching as their frosted breath trailed up towards the rafters, bragging about all the cups and banners they’d each have one day. Svetlana countered that she’d have more figure skating trophies, to which Ilya threw back a Russian response Shane only picked up the broad strokes of. Something about her not liking figure skating?
-
Canada won the gold medal. Team Russia lost and Ilya was finding it hard to care with how Shane was grabbing him on the shoulder and jostling him into a bear hug as he screamed in excitement. The game had gone into overtime, with the final score coming from Shane’s favourite player on the Canadian side, who Ilya had promptly forgotten the name of but was sure it was something boring.
Sveta was slumped in her chair, eyes bright, and laughing at the raucous celebration of their new friend. Her eyes darted to where her father was sitting in the coach’s box. Ilya knew sometimes Sergei got angry after a loss, but given that the Russian goalie had stopped 38 out of 41 shots on goal, he couldn’t be too upset tonight. Although, he was hard to read sometimes.
Ilya and Sveta hung around with the Hollanders, Shane still excitedly recounting his favourite plays in English too fast for Ilya to follow properly. That was something he’d learned over the course of his almost 27 hours of knowing Shane Hollander, when he got excited about something he spoke way too fast and was difficult to stop. Which meant that when Ilya spotted Sveta’s father gesturing for the two of them to join him, Ilya didn’t know how to interrupt.
“We have to go now,” Sveta interrupted for him. Shane stopped abruptly, as if he’d just realized that Ilya and Sveta weren’t going with him and would have to leave at some point.
“Oh,” He turned to his parents, seeming unsure.
“Why don’t you-” Whatever good suggestion Ilya was sure Yuna was going to offer was cut off by Sergei Vetrov calling over.
“Ilya, Svetlana, we must go. Do not waste my time, I do not want to wait,” Ilya shared a look with Sveta, clearly reading the impatience in her father’s tone.
“Thank you for yesterday and today, it was very fun, but we must go,” Sveta waved as she turned to start a light jog towards her father.
Ilya hesitated for a moment before wrapping Shane in a hug. He squeezed tightly and whispered, “Do svidaniya, spasibo Shanya” before releasing and walking backwards, facing the Hollander’s as he called out a thank you to them. He turned and ran to catch up with Sveta and board the bus back to the hotel, and then the plane back to Moscow tomorrow.
And as Ilya Rozanov watched the rain beat against the airplane window, he wondered if he’d ever see Shane Hollander again.