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It’s fucking freezing out here. Ilya shakes his lighter, trying to coax a spark that the wind doesn’t immediately blow out again. He could really use the artificial warmth of a cigarette in his chest just now.
He should be used to the cold by this point. For one thing, he’s Russian. For another, he’s been shivering as long as he can remember, never quite able to get warm. He gets goosebumps on the hottest summer days, barely sweats after hours of exercise. It makes him a very, very good athlete. It’s also a telltale sign that his soulmate, wherever they are, isn’t in Russia. He’s known that as long as he’s known what a soulmate is. The further your soulmate, the colder you feel, and Ilya might as well be carved from ice.
The first time he’d come to North America, an ill-fated vacation while his mother was still alive, his body had relaxed like he’d slipped into a hot bath. Warmth bloomed all the way to his icy fingers as soon as his feet touched the ground.
Great, he’d thought. So his soulmate was some fucking American.
He’d never admit it, but the memory of that warmth had pushed him to take hockey even more seriously. Chasing the possibility of a career in another hemisphere. Chasing that warmth. It was the first time in his life he’d slept under fewer than three blankets.
In the rink, everybody’s fingers are cold. Hockey at least gets his blood moving. He feels the sting of the refrigerated air and the heat of working muscles and can forget that he’s frozen to the core of his heart. Until he plays on Canadian ice.
Here, he’s looser. Faster. More awake. He can feel it the moment practice starts. Russia is going to win this. He’s going to win.
But even the quiet thawing in his chest can’t stand up to the biting Canadian wind. His lighter goes out again.
“Blyat,” he mutters.
“Ilya Rozanov?” someone says over his shoulder.
Ilya turns and sees Shane Hollander, star of the Canadian team, beloved of the local hockey-obsessed. Ilya’s watched more tape of him than he would ever admit, but none of it showed Hollander’s wide brown eyes or the smattering of freckles across his nose.
Ilya lights his cigarette, finally, and drags in a breath while he admires them.
“Shane Hollander,” Hollander says unnecessarily. He holds out his hand, which is hot like he’s got a hand warmer in his pocket. His smile is almost equally warm. Ilya can’t figure out why.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here,” Hollander says, miming a cigarette like he thinks Ilya can’t understand him. Ilya almost snorts. Surely Hollander didn’t come out in the cold just to tell him off.
“Okay.”
Hollander visibly casts about for a new topic of conversation, clearly at a loss. Ilya doesn’t mind watching him flounder. It’s an excuse to look at him, and looking is all Ilya is going to do. He has games to win.
“You’re an awesome player to watch.”
It takes Ilya several seconds to process the words, but the tone is clear immediately. “Yes,” he agrees.
He waits for Hollander to scoff. Instead he laughs. He doesn’t leave, either, leaning against the wall beside him. Ilya is acutely aware of him—can almost feel him, even half a meter away. He still can’t figure out what Hollander is doing out here. Aside from freezing his ass off.
“I should go,” Hollander says somehow even more awkwardly than before. “Anyway, good luck in the tournament.” He holds out his hand again, face heating immediately when he realizes he’s already done this, but he doesn’t back down. His freckles stand out prettily against the glow of his cheeks.
Ah. This is a look that Ilya understands. Hollander is sizing him up as more than a player. He pulls at his cigarette again, feeling the burn all the way through his core.
He shakes Hollander’s hand a second time and does a poor job of hiding his smile. “You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
Again, Hollander smiles like Ilya is joking with him. His face is still flushed. “That’s not happening.”
Ilya shrugs in a way he knows to be infuriating. “See you in final.”
The warmth in his chest lingers long after Hollander leaves. Excitement, Ilya thinks. Yes, he’s certainly excited to beat Hollander.
And maybe also to see him again.