Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov skates forward with the puck safely carried on the edge of his stick. Without any obstacles in his way, he approaches the crease for his second goal of the night. It will be simple. Everything has been simple so far at tonight’s game. The Buffalo Sabres are an easy team to beat, and an even easier team to chirp.
“Krebs!” Ilya shouts as he weaves around the center forward, “In Russian language, your name sounds like the little bug in ocean.” It wasn’t his best line, too wordy, but easy to follow up with, “Also sounds like English ‘crap’ - like how you play tonight!”
Krebs shouts something back as Ilya hands the puck off to a nearby team member and easily skates through the opening in the defense. Then he reaches where he needs to be at exactly the right moment, catches the puck from the assist, and sinks it into Buffalo’s goal. Their goalie doesn’t even have time to react before Ilya’s teammates engulf him in celebration and the horn sounds.
Easy games are boring, but they have a few benefits. Ilya doesn’t need tape review to know this team’s weaknesses, how they barely seem to have plays prepared. He can see every decision on the ice coming long before the players even attempt a change of direction or a new course of action. He almost sighs. If he isn’t working on his physical skills, he might as well use the opportunity to practice the fine art of verbal insults.
He slides close by Krebs on the next play, “If only you had crab legs, you might be fast enough!” Ilya raises one hand and pinches his fingers like a claw. Krebs raises one hand and flips him off.
Soon, Ilya’s line switches out and he takes a moment’s rest on the bench to rehydrate. The hometown crowd is cheering, clearly happy with their team’s results. His coaches are smiling, or at least, as close as they will ever come to breaking their steadfast, serious facade. All around him his teammates are upbeat, full of positive energy. Tonight is an easy, fun night of hockey.
He almost lets himself step out of it for a moment, distracted by a fan across the ice in a large puffy blue coat. The color is identical to Montreal’s home jersey and Ilya’s mind wanders to a different person in that shade of blue. He is about to do the mental math of how much longer he has to wait until he sees Shane again when a defenseman from Buffalo slams into one of the Boston rookies at center ice.
“Ref, do something about that,” one of the coaches shouts over the boards. His teammates are heckling and booing. Buffalo is down two points and smashing rookies isn’t going to change that. The defenseman, someone Ilya can’t name without seeing the back of their jersey, skates away with a little too much pomp as the Boston rookie slowly gets to his knees and then, more slowly, back on his feet. The player, Carson, is young but has so far proven to be a decent addition to the team. He is fast enough on the ice and generally gets on with everyone in the locker room.
Ilya watches the defenseman as he circles back around during the break in play. His name is Mackey, someone Ilya seldom pays attention to because he is much too slow to be significant if their lines cross. Ilya chews on his mouthguard a bit then lets it hang out the side of his mouth so he can shout as Mackey skates by.
“Hey Mackey,” Ilya sees the man look his way, “Rookies are easy, maybe you go for them because you know you cannot catch big fish, like me!” Mackey’s eyebrows lifted at the comparison. Again, not Ilya’s best, but the point got across. Mackey gives a meaningful, if not unfriendly nod. Game on.
With something to focus on, Ilya’s eyes follow Mackey through the next few plays. He is slow, like most defensemen, but he isn’t entirely unskilled. When the lines switch again Carson hops the boards easily, clearly fine. Ilya gives him a playful smack on the head as he skates out. Mackey is still on the ice, hovering in the background while Ilya crouches for the face-off.
He wins easily, passing the puck forward and watching it connect with his right wing. This gives him a moment to skate wide and pass by Mackey who seems to be waiting for him.
“Rozanov,” Mackey shouts with a glint in his eyes, “D’you change the kid’s diapers, too?”
A silly chirp, easy to one-up. Ilya receives the puck and shoots it forward at the goal. This time the goalie sees him coming and blocks the shot. Only a little frustrated, knowing he will get another try, Ilya circles around the net and races down the ice as the puck moves towards his own team’s defense. He easily catches up to Mackey and takes his chance.
“You know a lot of about diapers,” he asked, “do you wear one?”
Just then, the Buffalo center finds a streak of a luck and simultaneously unearths a shred of talent. The player shoots the puck and it sinks into the goal, over the Boston goalie’s right shoulder. Mackey cheers and waves at Ilya as he skates towards to the celebration, “What was that Rozanov? Can’t hear you over the sound of our goal!”
The hometown crowd boos and Ilya feels the atmosphere in the arena change. It is only the first period. Buffalo can get another goal and then they will be tied at the first intermission. The referee gets the celebrations cleared out and sends the players back to their positions. Ilya hunches over center ice once more, barely looking at the starting center who has a proud smile on his face. Instead, Ilya shouts over the player’s shoulder to Mackey in the back who is looking right at him.
“Don’t get too excited, you will make mess in diaper,” Ilya shoots at the defenseman just as the ref tells him to be quiet. Mackey grins and taps his ear, miming that he can’t hear. They go back and forth for the next several minutes of play, trading chirps when they’re both on the ice or skating by the benches.
Ilya throws out a few lines to the other Buffalo defense players as well, not wanting to give Mackey special treatment. Just as he is commenting on someone’s glacial speed, a random player bumps his shoulder on their way the bench. Ilya shrugs it off as the clock ticks by, warning that the end of the first third is near. Boston has time for one more play and he intends to make it count.
Once again, Ilya wins the face-off, takes the puck down the ice, can’t get an opening and shoots it out to his left wing who is free. He can see that his teammate isn’t quite ready and will fumble the opportunity to score. Just as he predicted, the puck sails wide off the shot and Ilya huffs in frustration. They have less than one minute left.
He pounces on the puck as it comes around the boards, getting into a tight battle with a Buffalo player as they fight for it. Sticks scrape against each other as Ilya throws his weight around trying to get the upper hand. “Fucking shit,” his opponent spits out after Ilya hip checks him.
“You also need diaper?” Ilya almost laughs at the player’s confusion as he stumbles. Another Buffalo player crashes into Ilya, trying to help his teammate. This player is taller and fights with more energy. They each slash and struggle for possession. Ilya leans in, dropping his shoulder and trying to get at the puck in a different angle.
Then someone’s elbow comes up hard and smashes into Ilya’s face.
He hears a crunch and immediately feels the impact. Fuck, he thinks, as his eyes water and an intense pain flashes through his skull. The telltale underwater sensation of blood rushing downward, clogging his nasal passages, tells him what he knows to be true from previous injuries: his nose is broken. Shit. Bad timing.
Vaguely he is aware that there isn’t a stoppage in play. The Boston fans are cheering again with escalation. Somehow this boring game has become something far more entertaining. For some people, fighting is half the appeal of hockey. The TV cameras and sports commentators are probably zooming in on him. This will be all over the highlight reels before the next commercial break.
He can taste blood on his lips now. Tiny droplets scatter on the ice. Whoever had elbowed him seems to pull back, aware of the illegal hit. Ilya uses the chance to fight for the puck one last time, even though his vision is already going blurry as his eyes tear up. He can feel his nose bleeding quite freely now, the heat and the pressure on his face preceding the inevitable swelling. He blinks rapidly and grits his teeth.
Ilya fights against the reflex to touch his face or try to stop the bleeding. If he can just get his vision refocused he can make a shot, then see the medic after he scores. He is so close to the goal. A broken nose isn’t a big deal, people play with one all the time. He can get some cotton packing and be back on the ice for second period.
The plan changes in the space of maybe fifteen seconds.
Ilya uses his forearm to push his helmet up, tilting his head back and trying to get the visor high enough to make his vision a little more clear. He turns his body to angle against an incoming Buffalo defenseman that he can only see as shadow approaching in his periphery. He feels the puck connect with his stick even though he can’t see it. He turns for the goal, keeping the puck on his side and swerves out of the way just as Mackey tries to check him against the boards. “Forget diapers, you’re gonna need a tampon for that.”
Then, because Ilya never can keep his mouth shut, never learned to bite his tongue in a situation like this, he spits out his mouth guard, making chirping - and breathing - so much easier, “You can take tampon and shove up it your - .”
A mass of Buffalo colors full body checks into him.
The hit sends Ilya spinning, swinging him back towards the boards. He has just enough time to raise an arm, trying to keep his already injured face from colliding with the glass. It is a careless instinct, one that wouldn’t normally matter except his head is still tilted back, which means his chin goes first, hitting his arm and causing a rebound just as he is forming his final words to Mackey.
Ilya’s lower jaw slams up hard, making his head ring.
In the next moment, his one remaining airway fills up with blood. He can’t breathe.