Chapter Text
The first time Michael Miller laid eyes on Ilya Rozanov after his abrupt departure from Boston to Ottawa, they were heading in opposite directions in a hotel lobby. Mike's body responded before his brain had a chance to weigh in and before his former captain spotted him. One perfectly executed pirouette, two steps back the way he’d come, and safety awaited inside a dimly lit vending machine nook.
The next time was at the rink before the game. Their eyes met across the ice, just enough for Mike's heart to seize up momentarily in his chest before he dropped his gaze and retreated to the visitors locker room.
And then the following night, at the bar after the game.
Just as the Raiders had lost the game, Mike was losing this fight. Badly.
The three drunk Ottawa fans he’d found himself on the wrong side of weren't too drunk to land hit after hit, drawing blood from Mike's nose and his lip and ensuring he’d have bruises blooming vibrant blue before sunrise. Or maybe it’s just that as drunk as they were, he was drunker.
Vaguely, Mike thought it was odd that no one had followed the group out of the bar, even if just to watch the fight that had escalated from taunting to shouting to shoving before they'd been kicked out by the gruff bartender. Maybe bar fights in Ottawa weren’t peak entertainment like they were back in Boston.
He didn’t have long to ponder the geographic and cultural differences of people’s reactions to violence, though, because the biggest guy, a tall kid wearing a Centaurs jersey, had just thrown another punch. It was on track to make brutal contact with Mike’s already abused nose when something equally shocking happened. From behind him, a strong hand gripped his collar and hauled him up and back, out of the trajectory of the hit, so hard that his feet almost left the ground. The move was so impeccably timed that the rush of air across his face from the oncoming fist blew his bangs off his forehead.
And then there was the voice. That Voice.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The effect was instantaneous and absolute, freezing everyone to the spot. And damned if Mike didn’t open his mouth to answer even though the question wasn’t directed at him.
As if he were still programmed to respond to That Voice without question, without hesitation, and with respect.
The assholes, for their part, looked both starstruck and anxious as they stared open-mouthed at the infamous, angry Russian hockey star who had tucked their victim behind his back and was now his human shield, staring them down like he wanted nothing more than for them to make a single move to get past him.
The bravest of the three found his voice first. “He’s a fucking Raider, man. Coming in THIS bar in THIS town talking shit like that? He was asking for it!”
“Asking for three-on-one fight, hm?” Ilya scoffed. “Get the fuck out of here. Don’t let me see your faces again, you hear me?”
Mike was only mildly surprised that they did, in fact, get the fuck out of there. It seemed Ilya’s power extended beyond current and former teammates to random out-of-line fans.
He started to laugh, tipsy and hollow. Then he was being maneuvered into the pool of light from the neon sign over the bar doors, Ilya’s face hovering too close as his fingers prodded none-too-gently at the throbbing wounds where Mike’s face used to be.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Mike said, squirming against Ilya’s grip. “Let go, man. Let me go, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, your face looks like it went through meat grinder. I should have done the same to them. Where is your team?” He tossed a glance over his shoulder as if expecting to see a group of Raiders heading over to reclaim their misplaced member.
Mike didn’t bother to answer, ramping up his struggles to free himself from Ilya’s hold. He stopped when Ilya used the grip on his shoulders to shake him once, hard.
“Miller, knock it off,” Ilya snapped. “I asked you a question. Your teammates, your captain. Where are they?”
“Fuck if I know. Probably back at the hotel. Who wants to celebrate an ass-kicking like you guys gave us tonight.”
“Ah, this is true,” Ilya acknowledged. “Okay. Then you come with me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re done here. And we need to clean up your face, make sure it’s not worse than it looks.”
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Rozanov,” MIke said, shoving at Ilya’s chest. He might as well have tried to shove a brick wall.
“Oh, you don’t.” Ilya rolled his eyes. “No because you are BIG MAN now, yes? Fresh off the rookie roster and ready to show the world. Can handle your liquor and talk tough and take on three meatheads at the same time. Answer to no one.”
“That’s right.”
“Clearly discipline has gone off track since I left.”
“A lot has changed since you left,” Mike snapped, a bitter edge to his tone as he tried once more to wrench his arm out of Ilya’s vise grip. “For the better.”
Ilya smirked, reaching out with the hand that wasn’t holding Mike’s arm to brush affectionately through his tousled brown hair. “Ah, okay. Is fair. You can tell me all about it while I fix your face. Come.”
“No.”
At the naked refusal, Ilya’s smirk vanished and his eyebrow rose dangerously. “Excuse me?”
Mike squared his shoulders as best he could with knees like Jello. “I’m not going with you.”
“You say this like you have choice.”
“You’re not my captain anymore, Rozanov!”
Ilya looked genuinely puzzled. “What is your point?”
“You have no right to just order me around!”
“I see no one else here to do it,” Ilya said, noting how Mike flinched a little at the words. “And while I may not be your current captain, you are still my rookie. That means you need help, I help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Yes, you do, Michael. You also need reality check, a smack upside the head and a paddle to the ass. Now stop whining, come with me now, and MAYBE I'll only do the first thing.”
And then the cocky bastard turned and started walking down the sidewalk in the direction of the hotel, as if there was no question in his mind that his former rookie would fall in line.
To his credit, Mike held out for a solid ten seconds before stumbling after him.