Chapter Text
Spring 2014
“Holy shit.”
Ilya has his hand out to grasp the handle on the milk jug at the university coffee shop when he hears the voice next to him.
“Holy shit,” the person says again. “You’re Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov?”
The second time he hears his name, it’s a question. He’s a TA for a few classes each year, so a variety of undergraduates know him, but he doesn’t think he knows this person. He’s mostly settled into his boring Canadian life, but old habits die hard, and he’s instantly on guard. The person he sees looking back at him, once he turns, is not someone he knows and not someone he’d expect (in hindsight, he isn’t sure why he’s surprised). The man, boy really, next to him is Shane Hollander–university hockey phenom, pride of the team, and last year’s NHL #1 draft pick. Ilya might not play anymore, but he’s aware of hockey, thanks very much.
He lets go of the milk without pouring himself any and turns to face Hollander, who is all wide brown eyes beneath his green toque. Hollander has a hand out, like he’s facing a fellow player on the ice after a game. Maybe it’s a reflex. Ilya forces himself to move, taking Hollander’s hand.
“Yes, is me,” he says with a grin, trying to soften the bad first impression he must be making. “And you are Shane Hollander.”
Hollander squeezes Ilya’s hand and lets go, and Ilya thinks he might be going crazy. No one has approached him about hockey in years.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Rozanov,” Hollander continues. Ilya’s shaking his head, like he can head Hollander off, but Hollander continues. “You were an awesome player to watch. I, uh, I watched you play, and we, my parents and I, were sorry to hear you’d retired. I, uh, kind of hoped to play against you one day, if I’m honest.”
Ilya thinks maybe Hollander has let too much slip–there’s a faint pink tinge to Hollander’s freckled cheeks, and he’s not quite meeting Ilya’s eye.
“Please, Mr. Rozanov was my father.” Ilya says, trying to be inviting. He doesn’t need to scare this kid. “Ilya, or Roz, if you must.”
He glances down at his watch and realizes with a start that he only has ten minutes to make it to his posted Tuesday morning office hours. He hurries through adding some milk to his coffee and finding a lid. He looks back at Hollander before he leaves, and the kid is still kind of frozen next to the sugar packets. For some reason, Ilya doesn’t want to leave him hanging.
“It was good to meet you,” he says and means it. “Good luck against Ottawa tomorrow, Shane Hollander.”
He smiles and leaves with a little nod, and Shane Hollander stares back at him, giving a half-wave and looking a little shell shocked.
Ilya hurries over to the Comparative Literature building and climbs to the third floor, taking stock of his right leg as he goes. It doesn’t feel worse than usual, which is good because the elevator in this building always creeps him out (so he always takes the stairs if he can). No one from the hockey world has recognized him in a long time. He’s relatively vain, but he isn’t crazy, and he knows he faded from recognition in hockey a long time ago. Every once in a while his name comes up in an article about former school stars, with a byline about how he’d been such a bright hope and the Boston Raiders had lost such a good pick when he’d been injured. His own self-imposed exile (read: retirement) from hockey was purposeful and thorough. By the time he’d been hurt, he’d realized very well that he was playing mostly for the chance to stay in North America and less for the love of the game. The money would have been good, he laughs a little at that–the money would have been phenomenal compared to his graduate student stipend, but he’s surviving. He definitely needs to replace his coat for next year, and his boots have seen better days, but he takes good care of himself and he’s not going to appear shabby (especially not when he has an entire lecture of baby undergraduates staring at him while he asks questions about Tolstoy and Gogol).
Ilya’s office on the third floor is small but not terrible. It has one window that overlooks a small courtyard. In the warm months, there are roses that bloom and benches to sit on. Now, there’s a light dusting of snow and no leaves in sight. A scrubby tree reaches a few leafless branches up by his window, but it’s not an inspiring sight. Ilya’s just glad it’s all his. One of his friends, Cliff, a few doors down in the department, has had to share his office twice now, and neither time had worked out well. In his office, Ilya sets down his coffee (substantially cooler than it was) and starts setting up his laptop for the day. If no one shows up to ask questions, he can work more on his research. He’s early in his graduate program, but he knows he’s going to focus on representations of the family in original and translated works. If it’s going to be his whole academic focus, he may as well make it fucking personal. Once his laptop has started up, and he knows where he put the books for the undergraduate Russian lit class, he settles down to wait. He’ll give it ten minutes before he decides people aren’t coming in. They’ll either come early or wait until the very end, if the pattern from the last few weeks is going to hold.
While Ilya waits, he thinks more about hockey. The way Hollander had recognized him took him back to his year in Boston, when he still anticipated the wide-eyed adoration of the other players and also the way it would lead to easy hookups and invites to parties. Most of Ilya’s team probably wouldn’t believe it if they could see him now, but here he is, neck deep in annotated copies of old books and endless pages of notes. Ilya shakes his head and chuckles quietly. It’s probably good for his PhD that he didn’t make it as a hockey player.
A quiet noise in the hall alerts him to his first student of the day. Ilya moves his laptop to the side and prepares himself to discuss Anna Karenina with a nineteen-year-old.