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While Ilya is not quite obsessed enough to have his Google alerts set up to notify him about the latest Shane Hollander news, his algorithm certainly acts like he does. His curated feed knows that he will, without fail, read any scrap of news about the Metros in the hopes that there'll be any mention of their captain.
So he's idly scrolling through an article, lying across Svetlana’s lap while she watches some reality show that he can't be bothered to keep up with. There's nothing particularly entertaining about the article, its mostly just the journalists trying and failing to bait Hollander into giving them an interesting sound bite to run with.
There is, however, one aspect of the article that catches Ilya’s attention, something that has been bothering him for a while now.
'Why do they compare Hollander to Serena Williams and Tiger Woods?' Ilya asks, knowing to wait for an ad break so he won't interrupt her show. 'Is it because they're boring sports? Are they insulting him?'
Svetlana looks down at him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. 'You are not this dense.'
'What? I'm missing something?'
'Oh, you are that dense. My mistake.'
Ilya huffs, sitting up and throwing himself to sit side by side with the woman. 'Tell me, if you are so smart.'
'How many hockey players do you know who are not white?' She asks simply, as if teaching a child something obvious.
He frowns as he thinks about it. Surely there must be some names he can draw from, but he comes up with nothing. '... Ah.'
'He's good at avoiding stupid comments like that.' She says, sounding impressed.
'Why those athletes? Why not people like Michelle Kwan? At least she is on the ice. He is more like her than he is like Tiger Woods.'
Svetlana considers the question. 'I think they would not insult him by comparing him to someone feminine. Reporters tend not to think about black women like that.'
Ilya scoffs at the idea that anyone could see Svetlana as anything other than wholly feminine.
'That must be annoying.'
'That’s just how life is when you look different.' She tells him simply.
It's never really hit Ilya how different Shane looks from the other players. Other than how startlingly attractive the man is in comparison to them. He frowns at the thought that anyone could look at Shane and think more about his race than anything else.
'You know this is why they call him protege?’ Svetlana adds. ‘Smartest man in hockey.'
'It is?'
Svetlana nods. 'People see Asian boy, they imagine him hunched over a desk to study. Getting good grades to please their Mama. Hollander is intelligent, yes. But no moreso than any other player who bothers to study.' She rolls her eyes. 'They are saying nice things, technically. But it's all stereotypes.'
'I see... You deal with bullshit like this too? Things I don't see.'
'Not as much as I used to. Things fade into the background. They all add up but I can ignore them most of the time.'
Ilya huffs. 'You should tell me if anyone treats you like this. I will beat them up for you.'
'I appreciate it. But I think Hollander is the one who needs you as his guard dog.’ She laughs.
As if summoned, the phone in Ilya’s hand lights up with a notification from Jane. He doesn't realise he's smiling at the name until he looks up and sees Svetlana rolling her eyes at him.
'I should go.' She declares suddenly and Ilya suspects that he's probably ruined the mood. 'I promised Anna I would come out for drinks.' She stretches, kissing Ilya’s cheek as she stands. 'Tell Jane I said hi.' She says in a teasing sing song voice before grabbing her bag and leaving Ilya’s apartment.
In the past, Ilya would have convinced her to stay. Or at least joined her for drinks. Instead he grabs his phone to see what Hollander has to say and tries not to think about how the “casual” relationship with his rival continues to fundamentally alter his life.
Jane: Fuck you
Ilya laughs. Shane must have escaped captain duties and looked at his phone. Ilya had watched the highlights of Shane's game against the Admirals and couldn't resist teasing him about the goal Scott hunter managed to score by getting past the Metros frankly absent defence. They had still won by a mile, continuing Hunters infamous losing streak. But at least Ilya had some fuel to tease Shane with.
Lily: You'll have to work harder than that to beat Boston
Lily: You are here in two weeks yes?
Ilya types, feigning ignorance despite knowing the exact date of their next match
Jane: Yeah
For a while, Shane types, then backtracks, types again. It takes him a while to decide what he wants to say next.
Jane: See you after the match?
Lily: Yes, I have big plans for after we beat you
Jane: Asshole.
***
Ilya doesn’t particularly dwell with the medias obsession with Hollanders race. He still thinks it’s ridiculous. They should be reporting on important things. Like how good his ass looks. Or how as they move towards summer, Shane has even more freckles scattered across his face. Ilya would be good money for that kind of publication.
He finds his thoughts drawn to Shane while he sits in a cafe, waiting for Svetlana. He tells himself it’s because they have a game tonight. Even though a distant part of his brain recognises that he’d be thinking of Shane regardless.
For a moment, Ilya thinks he’s so single minded that he’s started to hallucinate when he hears Hollanders voice. He forces himself back to reality, to focus. But the intrinsically familiar voice continues and Ilya realises that Shane is in the booth behind him.
They have their backs to each other, separated only by the narrow divider of the booth. It’s a tantalising task to not turn around but he forces himself to stay where he is when he realises that Shane is with his mother.
‘Why aren’t you wearing your Reeboks?’ Yuna chides.
Ilya has to stifle a laugh at hearing Shane Hollander be told off by his Momma.
‘I forgot to pack them.’ Shane says apologetically. ‘But I wore them all last month. They were in plenty of press photos.’
‘You can’t get lazy with this Shane. These brands bid a lot of money for you. It’s important’
‘I know Mom.’
‘There are so many kids looking up to you. Kids who don’t get to see themselves represented very often.’
‘I know Mom.’ Shane repeats, sounding flatly resigned.
It takes Ilya a moment, but he realises what Yuna means. Not much Asian representation in sports like hockey. And certainly not anyone that brands are as desperate to work with as Shane Hollander. The man seems to have a new campaign every week. Ilya doesn’t know how he does it. The all day shoot they had for a five second commercial was exhilarating but exhausting. He doubts it would have been as fun if Shane wasn’t there with him.
Shane isn’t exactly a natural on camera when it came to anything other than hockey, so Ilya doubts that he’s the one pushing for all these campaigns.
Part of Ilya is deeply intimate with the pressure Shane must be under. His father was constantly telling him how he represented all of Russia. Making any failure all the more devastating. Ilya can’t imagine the pressure Shane must be under if he’s being told that he carries the hopes of an entire race on his shoulders.
Ilya spins the phone in his hands, deep in thought. He’s half considering sexting Shane to distract him but Yuna excuses herself and heads to the bathrooms. Now that Shane’s mother is removed from the equation, Ilya can’t resist the urge to be a dick and turns in his seat, draping himself over the partition between them.
‘No way Shane Hollander “forgets” to pack something.’ He teases.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Shane jumps out of his skin, knee clattering against the table. ‘Asshole!’ He hisses, glancing around to make sure no-one is paying them any attention. Luckily its a fairly quite place, most of the occupants are students with noise cancelling headphones and eyes glued to their laptops. No-one spares them a glance.
‘What the fuck are you doing here Rozanov?’
‘You are in my city Hollander. Or did you forget? I come here for brunch.’
‘Brunch?’ Shane repeats, glaring.
‘New meal. Between breakfast and lunch.’
‘I know what fucking brunch is.’
‘So tell me. What is wrong with Reeboks? Not good enough for your delicate feet?’
Shane huffs, a pink tinge to his cheeks. ‘They’re too tight. I can’t risk getting blisters right now.’
Ilya clicks his tongue in acknowledgement. He glances down at the table, noting that while Yuna has a latte and a selection of pastries, Shane only has a green tea in front of him. ‘You should eat. You will need energy for tonight.’
‘I have a diet plan. I need to follow it on game days.’
‘I was not talking about the game.’ Ilya leans in, whispering in Shane’s ear. He only gets to enjoy the flush taking over Shane’s face for a moment. His attention is annoyingly dragged away as someone approaches them.
‘Fraternising with the enemy?’ Svetlana teases.
‘Happy coincidence.’ Ilya grins back at her.
‘Mhmm.’ Svetlana doesn’t quite sound like she believes him. ‘Are you going to introduce me?’
‘Ah, Hollander this is Svetlana Vetrova. Friend from Russia.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Shane says awkwardly, flush mostly reigned in by sheer force of will. Ilya snorts out a laugh as Shane extends a hand to the woman. ‘I’m-’
‘Oh, I know who you are.’ She tells him, taking his hand briefly in hers to avoid any awkwardness. ‘You are my favourite player.’
‘Traitor.’ Ilya pouts.
‘He has more wins than you.’ She tells him bluntly. ‘You need to catch up.’
‘I will start by beating Metros tonight.’ He promises, his hands itching to reach out and touch Shane in any way he could get away with in public. He’s prevented from doing anything too embarrassing when Shane’s mother returns.
‘Oh, hello.’ She says, eyes focused on Svetlana as she assesses whether the woman is a rabid fan who needs to be shooed away from her son.
‘Sorry for interruption.’ Ilya grins at the woman who looks shocked to see him. ‘Sveta wanted to meet her favourite player. She is fan-girl, but harmless.’
Yuna is quick to recover her composure. ‘Well, it’s nice to finally meet you Mr Rozanov.’
He notes that she doesn’t extend her hand to him. It must be a habit Shane had picked up from his father.
‘Call me Ilya, yes? I have heard a lot about you Mrs Hollander. Many men say they are terrified of Hollanders mother. Is very impressive.’
The woman looks reluctantly proud at the assessment. Ilya glances down at Shane who looks like he’s about to combust from embarrassment.
‘We were just getting brunch if the two of you would like to join us?’ Yuna offers, sheer Canadian politeness.
And as much as he wants to say yes, he doesn’t think that Shane could take much more teasing without spiralling into a panic attack.
‘Would be nice. But we take our coffees to go and walk the park. Another time maybe.’ He tilts his head, locking eyes with Svetlana in a silent plea to back up his lie.
Thankfully, she’s quick to play along. ‘Good to meet you Mrs Hollander. Shane.’ She gives the man a flirty wave as Ilya gets to his feet.
‘See you tonight Hollander.’ He calls with a wink after they grab their coffees and head to the exit.
Five minutes later, Ilyas phone buzzes.
Jane: Asshole.
Ilya huffs out a laugh and heart reacts the message before returning his attention to Svetlana’s story about her latest nail appointment.
***
The last straw for Ilya comes just before the game, when the two of them are once again side by side to face the press. Shane’s race is brought up almost instantly and Ilya can’t believe how blind he was to these comments before.
‘Shane. People are calling you the Tiger Woods of hockey. How are you handling the pressure of stepping in those footsteps?’
Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees Shane’s hands tensing around his water bottle, clearing gearing up for a well rehearsed response. Before he can open his moth, Ilya taps their feet together.
‘I think our fans would not know this comparison.’ He scoffs. ‘Golf is such a boring sport. It would send our fans to sleep.’ He waves a hand, as if physically dismissing the question. ‘Does anyone want to ask me about a decent sport? Or game tonight?’ He asks with an easy grin, glad when the reporters move to ask them about their race to get the most goals in the season.
Under the table, hidden from the reporters, Shane presses their legs together.
***
Later, when Boston has just managed to scrape a win again Montreal, lya lets himself wonder if he overstepped. Shane has spoken for him in interviews before, and god did Ilya appreciate that, stupid reporters throwing stupidly long English words at him when the language was still new to him. But while he appreciated the back up, he isn’t sure how Shane would feel about it. It isn’t exactly his place after all.
Shane messages him to let Ilya know he’s let himself into the penthouse (Ilya had given him to code a long time ago). So the man can’t be that mad.
Ilya shows his face at the teams celebrations, eventually using the excuse of having the lovely Jane waiting for him.
The second his steps foot in his penthouse, he’s pushed against a wall and Shane’s lips are on him, messy and desperate.
‘Hi.’ Ilya exhales when they finally part for air. ‘Good welcome.’
‘Hi.’ Shane grins, sinking to his knees without prompting.
‘Fuck…’ Ilya says reverently, hand sliding into Shane’s hair.
All thoughts of having misstepped are erased from his head as Shane shows him just how much he appreciated the support.
***
Later, when they’re sated and lying in each others arms in Ilya’s bed, Ilya gets the nerve to actually bring it up. ‘Does it bother you?’ He asks carefully. ‘When reporters make fuss about your race?’
‘I mean… yeah.’ Shane admits. ‘But it’s just something that’s always happened.’ He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
‘Doesn’t mean it isn’t shit.’
‘Yeah.’ Shane sighs, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Ilya’s arm. ‘You deal with shit like that too though, right?’
‘What?’ Ilya blinks.
‘A lot of people underestimate you. I see it happen a lot with JJ too. Because you have a thick accent, they think you’re not smart. It’s fucking stupid.’
Before Ilya fully processes what Shane is saying he’s holding the man tighter, pressing kisses along his neck.
Shane doesn’t stop, indignant on Ilya’s behalf. ‘People don’t appreciate how hard it is to be fluent in another language when you start learning it as late as you did. Language acquisition is easy as a kid. Your brain just absorbs it. But it’s real hard once you get to like your twenties. I mean, fuck, I started Russian on Duolingo a few months ago and I still haven’t got my head around the alphabet.’
Ilya listens to Shane’s rant fondly, loving the passion that pours out of Shane. He freezes suddenly, stunned when Shane mentions his language. ‘You have been learning Russian?’
Shane’s mouth quickly shuts, biting his lip. Ilya shifts them so they’re lying besides each other. Face to face, so Shane has nowhere to hide.
‘Why?’
‘Well…’ Shane sighs. ‘You mentioned a few times how hard English is when you’re tired. And I thought maybe if I could at least understand a bit you’d be more comfortable….’
‘Hollander. We see each other only a few times a year.’
‘It’s dumb.’ Shane cringes. ‘I just… I like learning new things and it was just an option that made sense when I was looking at the language options.’ He rambles. ‘It’s not-’
Ilya silences the man with a kiss. ‘Breathe, Hollander.’
Shane takes a slow, steadying breath before slowly meeting Ilya’s eyes again.
‘What have you learned?’
‘My accent will be shit.’ Shane warns him.
‘Oh no.’ Ilya deliberately exaggerating his thick Russian accent.
Shane rolls his eyes. ‘Just like… Basic conversation. You know?’ Shane starts to rattle off phrases in Russian. Hello. Goodbye. Thank you. As promised, his accent is truly terrible. His Canadian mouth struggling with the hard consonants, but Ilya beams with pride.
‘Very good.’ He says in Russian. Shane must understand, he blushes with the praise.
Ilya lunges forwards, straddling Shane as he showers the mans skin with kisses. ‘I will help you. Teach you the fun words.’
‘Yeah.’ Shane huffs, arching into the embrace. ‘Like what?’
‘Please. Harder. Faster.’ Ilya grins, repeating each word in his native tongue.
‘You’re such a jerk.’ Shane laughs as Ilya attacks his neck.
‘And you are perfect.’
While they don’t have the energy needed for round two, Shane stays in Ilya’s bed. They tangle themselves up in each other and Ilya draws out every Russian word that Shane has been taught by an owl, correcting any overly weird pronunciations and showering Shane in praise when he gets something right.
‘Good night Ilya.’ Shane says is Russian as sleep finally starts to take over.
Ilya presses one last kiss on the mans forehead. ‘Goodnight Shane.’