Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov doesn't always remember all the women he meets, but his first time meeting Sasha Hemslowe would be burned into his head until the day he died, possibly more vividly than when he met Shane.
In his defense, Shane had just awkwardly told him to stop smoking. Sasha had come up to him at some club in DC, slid into his booth, leaned into him, and told him, in the weirdest accent he'd ever heard someone speak Russian in, that she was going to break both his kneecaps and cave in his skull.
He believed her, too. She was tiny, with ice blonde hair, and ice blue eyes, the kind of woman who everyone would write off as adorably harmless if not for the fact that white-hot rage was radiating off of her. So Ilya decided to ask the most pertinent question.
"What the fuck is wrong with your Russian?"
She let out a deep-seated sigh and clenched her fists. "It's not wrong; it's an accent. I learned from my Russian expat mother while growing up in Texas Hill Country. This is a known fact about me, so why the fuck is everyone always suprised that I sound like a Texan who learned Russian from a Moscow socialite?"
Ilya studied her; waited a moment. "You're going to kill me harder now, yes?"
She nodded, visibly seething. "Oh, yeah."
"Fair enough." He shrugged, then took a drink of vodka. "May I ask what I did? Other than the accent thing."
"Oh, that's easy." She suddenly shifted to a painfully bright smile. "My upstairs neighbor."
Ilya was thrown by her answer, so much he almost choked on his drink. "What?"
She went on, cutting smile still in place. "You do my upstairs neighbor. I don't live in DC, I live in Montreal. 221 Rue Papillion, Apartment 2B."
Ilya's blood went cold. That was Hollander's address, except he was 3B.
"And when you do my upstairs neighbor,” she went on, oblivious to his panic, “You do him very, VERY loudly. I'm an EMT, I need sleep! I've been forced to pretend to be a Raiders fan to explain why I obsessively stalk Ilya Rozanov, because it's not like I can say 'I need to know when to take overnight shifts because he fucks my landlord so right that my ceiling vibrates!’”
She was getting more and more worked up, so much that she grabbed Ilya’s drink and downed it in one shot. “And it's every room! If y'all stuck to the bedroom I could just crash on my couch, but no! Like, is there a weight-bearing surface in that place that you have not fucked on?".
Part of Ilya was proud. Proud to know that someone knew how well he fucked Hollander. Proud to know that he did it so well, even his neighbors knew who fucked him best.
Most of him was filled with pure terror. She knew he fucked a man. Presumably, she knew which man he fucked. If she ever said anything…
"You cannot tell anyone. Ever. Not even him. I will pay anything you want." Ilya tried to keep his voice steady, though he wasn't sure how well he succeeded.
"Obviously." Then she pulled back, revulsion on her face. "Wait, is that what you think? That I want to blackmail– oh my god! No! I wouldn't do that! Jesus!"
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I know I don't fully get it. But I'm bi, and my moms Russian, and I'm a pro athlete in a sport whose gender roles are just as toxic as hockey, maybe worse. So I get as much as anyone on this continent can. And I am telling you, I will never do that."
And in that dark club, with the lights strobing and music blaring, Ilya felt a sense of calm wash over him. He believed her. She knew, but she understood, and suddenly Ilya felt a little less alone, the same way Sveta made him feel. He drained his drink, hoping the vodka would help stave off the panic. Still, there was one question left.
"So what do you want, if not money?" She had come up to him for a reason, after all.
She laughed. "Honestly, I think I just wanted to vent. A heads up when it's safe to come home. Maybe? Or a room at the Marriott down the road so I'm not stuck paying rack rate on one of the busiest nights of the year. Hell, I'll take a limoncello martini."
Ilya laughed with her. "I can do that. Give me your phone, I'll put my number in." They swapped information, and Ilya glanced at her name before flagging down a waitress and ordering her drink. "So what sport do you do? You said athlete, but you also work, so I'm guessing it's not a popular one. Not skating. Synchronized swimming? Don't make me google you, Sasha Hemslowe."
Sasha rolled her eyes as Ilya began to tease her. Clearly, her Russian mama had raised her well, not sensitive like so many Americans. "I'm a rhythmic gymnast. American champion in literally everything for the last five years."
Their new drinks arrived, and Ilya raised his in a toast. "You must be incredible. Too bad you're in America. In Russia, you'd be famous"
Sasha shook her head. "In Russia I'd be nobody. I'm the best rhythmic gymnast in this hemisphere, but that's like being the biggest fish in a medium pond versus a whole ocean. I'm good where I am."
Ilya shrugged. That made sense. He was the best in the world, other than Hollander, but he could understand wanting to be a star in one place versus a journeyman in another. But that didn't quite line up. "Wait. If you're American, and you're that good, why do you live in Montreal? Why do you work? Don't you have a governing body to help support you?"
"USAG hates me." Sasha shrugged. "Three years ago, I walked in on a coach getting handsy with a 13 year old. And like, when it was me, it was fine. I could handle it. But seeing it happen to Grace… suddenly I realized how awful it was."
Ilya remembered when something similar happened to him. His coach in juniors liked to slap players who weren't up to snuff, to get them to focus. Ilya had never complained when he got hit. But when the same thing happened to quiet, shy Ivan, he'd seen red.
Sasha shrugged, nonchalant."So I beat him with my clubs. They covered it up, but they've been out to get me ever since. I'm scored more harshly, get no support, no sponsorships. But I'm so good that they can't get me out unless I walk out. And I'm not walking out, if for no other reason than to keep giving those fuckers the middle finger." She gave a double example, a dark hatred simmering in her eyes.
The more Sasha talked, the more Ilya liked her. She reminded him of Sveta, all passion and focus wrapped up in a pretty package. Ilya thought that Sasha would have been an incredible hockey player, and he told her so.
"I'm pretty sure that, to you, that's the world's highest compliment. Honestly, I'm good. I like my sport. I push boundaries, I innovate. I make everyone question what's possible." Sasha suddenly sobered up. "But seriously, you cannot tell him I know about you. He severely undercharges rent."
Ilya held up his hands. "I promise, I will say nothing. Otherwise I assume we'll be back at the kneecaps?"
"--Back at the kneecaps, yeah". Sasha joined in. "Wait, is this Zara Larsson? Let's dance!"
It was indeed Zara Larsson, and Ilya happily took Sasha's hand and headed out to the dance floor, happy to move along to the beat with a pretty girl, as another one sang about new crushes and fleeting feelings.
If he kept thinking about how much better it would be dancing with someone tall and muscular, with dark hair and freckles everywhere, well. No one needed to know.