Chapter Text
Shane loved playing hockey against South Carolina. The Stingrays shouldn't have been good — weren't for a long time — but having Andrew Minyard on their line had changed everything. He was an unlikely first draft pick, considering his notorious attitude on and off the court, but the Stingrays’ gamble had paid off: the inhuman way he was able to shut down that goal gave the rest of the team the breathing room it needed to stop getting so thoroughly trashed. It made every goal Shane successfully landed that much sweeter. This was the Rays' first year with a new star center, though: Neil Josten had signed on right after graduation. Shane was curious to see how the rookie fared in the big leagues; he had played spectacularly in college, and of course him and Minyard knew each other from the Foxes, but you never knew how a team would mesh, especially with two personalities so obviously reticent to outsiders.
Shane explained all of this to a half-interested Ilya in the car ride to the rink. It was an Ottawa home game, which boded well for the Centaurs, who after a long uphill climb had finally won the Cup last season.
"I heard they speak to each other in Russian during games," was the only thing Ilya added. "Probably more useful in American college where stupid Americans only speak English. I wonder if they will do it here also."
They didn’t find out about either of the men’s proficiency in the language. What they found out instead was that Neil Josten was a motherfucker on the ice. There was no one faster, more aggressive, or more willing to rile up their opponents. Shane almost couldn't keep his eyes off of Josten, trying to figure out what about him seemed familiar. It was Ilya, he finally realized. Neil Josten was a harder, meaner version of rookie Ilya Rozanov. His hits were angrier, his chirps more cutting, but he carried Ilya's cockiness and, yes, the talent to back it up. He didn't speak any Russian that Shane could hear, but he did use Minyard as a tool much more than Shane had ever used his goalie, passing the puck to him in a shot that seemed like an own-goal until Minyard shot it back down the ice toward the Centaurs goal before Shane even realized the puck hadn't gone in. Josten and Minyard may have played on the same team longer, but they were playing with one hand behind their back. Minyard was relegated to one end of the ice, but Shane and Ilya could travel with each other across it. And, of course, unlike Shane and Ilya, Josten and Minyard were not in a long-standing, deeply loving relationship.
In the end, it was a tight game — 4-3 in overtime for the Centaurs — and much closer than anyone would've expected from a team with a rookie at the helm. Shane sat back as Ilya gave his weary team a short yet rousing closing speech and let them go home; in the shadow of the Cup, beating an inexperienced, mediocre team like the Rays didn't really feel like a victory worth celebrating.
Shane and Ilya walked out together, but Shane faltered when he noticed a blond man taking a drag of a lit cigarette next to the no smoking sign. Again, Shane was rocked by déjà vu to rookie Ilya — no, pre-rookie Ilya. Saskatchewan, 2008 Ilya.
"What is it?" Ilya had stopped to follow Shane's line of sight.
"That's what you looked like when we met."
"Angry and short?"
"No. Well, yes, kind of. Angry, a little. I thought at me. But clearly, you got over it."
"Clearly." He tugged on Shane's hand. "I am cold, Hollander. Please, can we get in the car before my hand freezes off."
Shane turned back as the away locker room door swung open. He missed who walked out, but he caught Minyard stubbing out his cigarette out of the corner of his eye.
*
Andrew knew he would only have until the end of his cigarette, and then Neil would emerge from the locker room and Andrew would never hear the end of their loss. Neil had tied the score seconds before the end of regulation time, and Andrew could tell he was so sure they were going to keep the Centaurs out of the Rays' goal during overtime.
But Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were in another league altogether.
Even beyond the five Cups between them and their respective decades-long reputations as hockey's generational talents, they had an unspoken ease with each other that was uncommon even among teammates. Andrew noticed their wordless communication on the ice almost immediately; he was the one they were conspiring to get past, after all, and it even worked, more often than he'd like to admit. Neil had spotted it first, during one of the Centaurs’ playoff games last year. He had pointed it out to Andrew, who had rewarded him with nothing but a bored glare, but then Neil had said, "Do you think that's what it looks like when we play?"
And it returned like an echo in Andrew’s head during tonight’s game. He only tore his eyes off Hollander and Rozanov to block the shots they fired at him, and he started to notice what Neil was talking about. The split-second glances Hollander would shoot Rozanov, who didn't even seem to see them, but who would regardless respond with the move Hollander clearly expected. The small grins Rozanov would aim at Hollander as if he had already scored a goal, even though they were still mid-play. These were all crucial vocabulary words in a language Andrew wouldn't ever speak, but he recognized the cadence well enough.
"Yes," he said simply when he heard the door swing open.
"What?" Neil was baffled. He was still stewing in anger at the loss.
Andrew took pity on him and rephrased Neil's question in his response. "I think that is what it looks like when we play."