Chapter Text
The roar of the sold-out arena was a physical weight, pressing down on the ice as the third period ticked past the ten-minute mark. Dave Miller, thirty-four and breathing hard, let it wash over him. As captain of the Raiders, this was what he lived for - these last moments, tied game, packed arena.
He glanced to his right. Rozanov, twenty years old and running purely on adrenaline and rookie arrogance, hopped over the boards for his shift. Roz played some of the best hockey Miller’d ever seen. At twenty, he was a constant reminder that Miller’s own time on the team was winding down. He was also the Raiders’ biggest hope.
The kid played hockey like he’d been born with a stick in hand. He talked trash like it too. On his worst day, the days he showed up visibly hung over and pissy as hell, he was still better than most of the team. So good that he skated by with things most younger players would have been called up on.
But against Montreal, he was a demon. Possessed. There was no other word for it - the way Rozanov would kick it into a higher gear, would chirp until he drew penalties then skate away with a smirk, would pull off plays that made Dave relieved to have the kid on his team.
The main target of his endless chirping was, as always, Hollander. Another freak of nature, born hockey stick in hand. The two had been trading plays all evening. Now, they were on the ice together and the Garden vibrated with the energy of watching two generational talents duke it out for the win.
Miller cursed as Donaghue took a minor with three minutes left in regulation. A fucking penalty kill, this late in the game. He shook himself, settling in for a grueling shift of defense - anything to keep the puck in play and out of their net. Montreal moved the puck with lethal, suffocating precision, Hollander always half a second ahead, like he knew where the puck was going before his teammates had even decided to pass. Then, to his right, Comeau. A stumble, half a second out of sync with his team. The puck skittered out to the neutral zone, and Roz was on it.
Rozanov accelerated down the center of the ice on a 1-on-2 rush against the Voyageurs’ top defensive pairing.
“Get it deep!” Miller shouted as he pumped his legs, chasing after the rookie. A turnover now, on the penalty kill, would be the end.
Rozanov didn't dump it. He didn’t give any indication he’d heard Miller at all. Instead, he hurtled toward the two defensemen who were backing up and tightening the gap between them. They were setting a trap at the blue line, preparing to close the door like a vice. And Rozanov wasn’t slowing down.
“Red line, Rozzy! Pull up!" Miller distantly heard the Raider’s goaltender scream from two hundred feet away, echoing Miller’s own instruction.
The gap was barely wide enough for a stick, let alone a human body. Right as the defensemen stepped up to pinch, Roz flipped the puck softly between their skates and tried to muscle his way through the closing gap.
He didn't make it cleanly. The two defensemen slammed together, catching the kid’s shoulders in a heavy, jarring sandwich check. The impact killed his momentum and sent him crashing hard onto his stomach, sliding head-first down the slot.
He should have ducked, covered his fucking head as he slid down open ice and toward the base of the net. Instead, Miller could only watch as the kid’s eyes locked on the puck sliding just inches ahead of his glove.
Rozzy fully extended his right arm. With only one hand on his stick, he managed to hook the puck just before it drifted out of reach. In one fluid, desperate sweep, he whipped a blind backhand pass across the crease.
Miller, trailing the play, found the puck sitting perfectly on his tape with a wide-open net. He buried it just as Rozanov went sliding out of frame.
The red light flashed. The arena exploded.
Miller watched the puck go in, allowed himself a brief moment of celebration. Then he turned to watch Rozanov hit the end boards heavily with his shoulder pads, crumpling into a heap of snow and tangled limbs in the corner.
For a brief, tense, second, Miller hesitated, waiting to see if the rookie was hurt. Instead, the kid immediately scrambled up onto his knees, grabbed the boards, and pulled himself to his skates. He brushed the snow off his visor, unharmed except for a split on his lip where he’d probably bit through, and flashed a bloody, triumphant grin.
Ducking his incoming teammates, Miller skated directly over to Rozanov, grabbed him by the front of his jersey, and shook him in place.
“Are you completely out of your fucking mind?!" Miller yelled over the deafening crowd, his voice tight with adrenaline.
Rozanov spat a streak of red onto the ice, his grin never wavering. "Got it through, though, didn't I?"
Miller let go of him, shaking his head in disbelief as he turned toward the bench. "You're a generational talent, kid. But if you don't start valuing your own spinal cord, your generation is going to last about three more shifts."
Rozanov laughed brightly, undaunted. Anger shot through Miller - the fucking arrogance of this kid.
He kept his hand on Rozanov’s jersey and pushed him toward the bench. Just as they approached it, he made up his mind.
“Stay after, rook.”
That, more than the split lip or the hand on his jersey, seemed to take Roz aback. He glared fiercely at Miller as they reached the bench.
“I’ve got plans.”
“Well now you’re going to be late for those plans.” He let that sit for a moment, then looked away and nodded at the ice. “Focus on the game.”
Miller ignored the kid’s spluttering, angry mutters. They were in Russian anyways, and the only word Miller knew at this point was ‘fuck.’
And how to order vodka, but that was irrelevant.
He made his way over to coach, bent his head over the tablet, and hashed out the last few minutes of the game. A few shifts later, the arena was writhing, the lights flashing, and he joined his teammates to pile onto the ice in celebration.
He’d been captain of the Raiders for the last five years, through plenty of losses and, more recently, many wins. He had maybe a season left in him. Rozanov wasn’t the first reckless rookie he’d reined in, though he may be the last. But for now, it was time to celebrate.