Chapter Text
Shane Hollander's POV
Shane remembers the moment in the stairwell of his building vividly.
How Rozanov had joked about him winning a bronze medal, how he’d teased Shane about coming without using his hands and how softly he had kissed Shane. Just two soft kisses, before he had taken his jacket from Shane and had said that agonisingly soft “bye” before leaving the building. Leaving Shane to sit on the staircase for a few minutes, waiting for his heart rate to slow down.
He had truly felt like a lovesick fool that just had their very first date. But, instead of sliding down a door while giddy laughter took him over like in those movies, he was sitting in the cold stairwell.
But that isn’t what he should be thinking about right now.
He remembers Rozanov saying that his father would come to the Olympics to watch him play, maybe his brother, but he hadn’t mentioned his mother.
Yet, here she is.
A beautiful woman with blonde curls, a soft mouth that curls into a polite smile and hazel eyes–the exact same hazel eyes as her son. Her eyes have that same intense gaze that Ilya often has, as she watches Shane.
“Irina Rozanova,” the woman says with a soft voice and a heavy Russian accent. “You must be Shane Hollander.”
Shane wonders if he should hold out his hand to greet her, but so far it doesn’t seem like she has any intention of reaching her hand out for him. She bends her head in greeting.
“Yes, uh–” Shane swallows hard, nodding his head as if he is a fucking bobble head. “Yes, I’m Shane Hollander. It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Rozanova.”
He wants to tell her that he has heard great things about her, but it’d be a lie. Ilya has not once mentioned his mother to Shane, not that they were exactly on friendly terms where they’d discuss their family or any other personal things.
“Shane?” Her soft voice brings him back to reality.
Her soft voice, with the Russian accent, sounds so much like the way Ilya sometimes talks to him to make sure that he’s okay and– He really should not be thinking about that right now.
It’s just really astounding how much Ilya resembles her. Shane had definitely seen Ilya’s father before, he had been there on the day of the draft. He wonders if Ilya’s brother looks like his father and Ilya has taken after his mother.
He buries his nail in the palm of his hand. Since when does he want to know more about Ilya’s personal life? Ilya’s family?
“I’m so sorry,” Shane says, a polite smile taking over his face. His mother would crawl out of her skin if she could see how impolite he is being right now. “Roz– Ilya looks a lot like you.”
He needs to keep from flinching. Ilya. He kind of hates how nice his name rolls off Shane's lips. But it’d be really fucking weird to call her son by his last name, right?
She smiles and it’s so fond and full of pride that it makes Shane nearly choke up.
“That’s a nice thing for you to say,” she says and her eyes flit to the space behind Shane.
He follows her gaze and his eyes find Ilya standing by himself, his body and head resting against a pillar as he watches the ice. He looks so fucking sad that it pains Shane a little.
“It makes me happy when people say that I look like him,” she continues and Shane manages to tear his eyes away from Rozanov. “He has grown into such a sweet and kind boy.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she laughs softly. “I know he doesn’t always show that, especially not on the ice.” It makes Shane laugh along with her. “But he has a good heart, despite–” She cuts off her sentence as her smile falters and she averts her eyes.
Shane feels the immediate urge to reach out to her. He has seen a similar expression on Ilya’s face, perhaps a few times. The first time had been on the day of their draft. Shane had been watching Ilya standing on the balcony, with his father and someone from the Boston team.
He had watched Ilya’s face fall as his father said something–something that Shane hadn’t been able to catch from his spot downstairs, but it felt wrong.
Just like how it feels wrong right now, that such a beautiful woman can look so sad.
“I know,” Shane says and her eyes snap back to his face, he does his best to hold her gaze. “He is– I mean, yes sometimes he can be an asshole.” His mouth snaps shut, but the amused smile on Irina’s face encourages him to continue. “But he’s also a great hockey player, one of the best I have ever seen and I’ve watched a lot of players–past and present. And he’s kind, he cares a lot.”
Which is also true. Shane knows Rozanov long enough that he knows he masks a lot of his true feelings by being an asshole and chirping. But this is also the man that checks in with Shane every single time to make sure that he is okay when they share a bed. The man that pushes Shane to be a better hockey player. The man that can make Shane smile with a single text.
Fuck.
“I think he can use a friend,” Irina says as her eyes drift to her son once again. That sadness and something else that Shane can’t read in those hazel eyes.
When she meets Shane’s eyes again, that intense gaze returns. It kind of scares Shane, but also makes him want to lean in more to hear her next words.
“Sometimes it’s difficult for him to be back here.”
“The stadium?” Shane asks, earnestly.
“Russia,” she answers. “It’s difficult for him to be in Russia. He still wears my necklace, as a little boy he always believed that it would protect the two of us from the evil that surrounds this place. Russia is unkind to a boy like my Ilyusha.”
Shane wants to ask what she means with that, but she continues.
“I think he can use a friendly face in cold Sochi.” She reaches her hand up to Shane’s face as if she wants to either pinch his cheek or caress his cheekbone but the touch doesn’t come. “You have a very sweet and friendly face, Shane Hollander, and I know that–even though he might not say it out loud–he thinks the same and he’d appreciate seeing it.”
Shane scrunches his nose lightly under the sweet words of Irina Rozanova, but somehow he believes her.
“My Ilyusha is just like me. He often tends to linger in the darkness. Sometimes he forgets to remember the happy moments. Sometimes he needs someone to remind him of the sunny days. I know I’m asking a lot of you, Shane. But please be his friend.” There’s an urgency in her voice that makes Shane’s heart beat a little faster.
But he nods and the smile that she gives him is warm.
“Will you promise me?” she asks.
He should probably reconsider promising this to Rozanov’s mother, because what if he doesn’t even want Shane as a friend? But his mouth betrays him and without hesitation he says, “I promise.”
“Don’t let my stubborn boy convince you that he doesn’t need you.”
Shane opens his mouth to ask another question, but he’s interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.
“Hollander!”
Shane turns around and sees Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter walk up to him. Vaughn is cradling a cardboard box of popcorn to his chest, as if he’s afraid someone will take it from him, and Hunter holds out a drink to him.
He takes it with a tight, “Thank you.”
He turns around, wanting to ask what Irina Rozanova meant when she said, “Don’t let my stubborn boy convince you that he doesn’t need you.” Because she had said it with the emphasis on the “you” as if she meant Shane specifically and it is making his head spin a little.
But when he turns around she is gone. His eyes flit around the space, trying to find those blonde curls and hazel eyes, but she’s nowhere to be found.
“You good, buddy?” Vaughn asks, coming up next to him.
“Yeah,” Shane mumbles, biting on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Hunter is on his other side. “Let’s go find some seats, figure skating is about to begin.”
Shane follows Vaughn and Hunter to their seats. He makes sure to focus on his buddy Joe as he does his routine, but during any other act his eyes drift up to the space where Ilya Rozanov is standing–watching the ice.
It looks like he hasn’t moved once since the first time Shane noticed him.
Irina’s voice echoes in his mind. “I think he can use a friend.” but mostly, “I think he can use a friendly face in cold Sochi.” and “Russia is unkind to a boy like my Ilyusha.”
Vaughn’s earlier words, in the ice cream shop, ring in his mind. “Well, I’m assuming your buddy may be gay. It’s fucking brave for a dude to show up to a place like this and be like, “Hey, here’s me.” Russia is not safe for folks like that. Fucking balls of steel man.”
He wonders if Ilya has to hide who he is every time that he comes back to Russia, his home country, who will not accept him if he shows who he really is. He wonders if Ilya even wants to come back to Russia every summer, if he experiences being in Russia as difficult–like his mother seems to think.
“Man, your buddy fucking killed it!” Vaughn’s voice snaps him back.
“Fuck yeah, he did.” Shane manages a short look back to the ice, before they snap right back to Rozanov. That’s when he makes his decision. “I’m just going to find the bathroom,” he says and walks off, without looking back.
He keeps walking, letting his feet guide him as fast as he can, before his mind can think too much about it and stop him. Before he knows it, he is standing at the top of the stadium and Ilya Rozanov is right in front of him.
“Hey,” Shane says, his voice wavering a little.
Ilya lifts his head off the pillar and he looks at Shane. His face is blank, void of any emotion, but Shane can see the glint in his hazel eyes and he recognises it. He recognises it simply, because not long ago, he saw the same look in Irina Rozanova’s eyes.
Ilya looks back at the ice. “Not here,” the Russian says.
“No, I’m not–” Shane cuts his sentence off. Fuck, he is already stumbling over his words. “I saw you up here, I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Fine. Go sit down.”
Shane hates how flat Ilya’s voice is. He has let himself get used to hearing that teasing lilt when they’re on the ice or that warm kind of concern when they are together in between four walls.
Thereby, Rozanov is clearly full of shit. He looks far from fine.
“We’re–”
“We are not anything.” He doesn’t even look at Shane when he says that and Shane is kind of glad, because that means he can’t see the way that sentence makes him flinch. “Go away, Hollander.”
Instead, Shane takes two more steps towards Ilya. “Are you okay?”
“Please, go.”
Shane is not going.
“You didn’t answer my texts.”
Ilya looks at him, again, and Shane does his best not to take a step back under the intensity of his gaze.
“No, I did not answer your boring text. Now will you go?”
It’s the first time Shane feels like Ilya uses his “boringness” to insult–to hurt. Shane scoffs, letting his eyes wander to the ice, before snapping back to Ilya.
This is the moment that he needs to make a decision and he feels like it’s one of the most important decisions of his life. The voice of Irina Rozanova echoes in the back of his mind.
“Please be his friend. Will you promise me?”
And Shane had promised.
“Don’t let my stubborn boy convince you that he doesn’t need you.”
He’s definitely missing something, something important about why Ilya’s suddenly become so closed up, so…mean now that they’re in Russia.
Shane shuffles his feet, nervously. “So, I met your mom. She’s really nice.”
Rozanov’s eyes cut to him and there’s something in there that Shane doesn’t understand. He hates how bad he is at reading people’s faces, especially now that Ilya is looking at him like he has said the worst possible thing he could say, instead of trying to make nice small talk like he intended to.
“What did you say?” Ilya asks.
Shane flinches and this time he is sure Ilya didn’t miss it. Rozanov’s cutting gaze is making his skin crawl in a way that makes him want to run and hide. He swallows hard and, with everything in him, he holds Rozanov’s gaze.
“I said,” Shane’s voice is shaky. “I met your mom. She’s really nice. We talked for a little while, before the figure skating started.”
“Is this a joke?” Ilya’s voice cracks on the last word. “Are you playing some kind of sick joke on me?”
Shane blinks. Then blinks some more. Desperately trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Why would he make a joke about meeting Rozanov’s mom?
“Eh. . .”
Shane is looking around the ice rink, desperately trying to find the words that will stop Ilya from looking at him the way that he is. It’s nothing like the way he looks at Shane from across the ice, nothing like the way he looks down on Shane when they’re in bed.
Instead, his eyes find Scott Hunter, looking up at them with furrowed eyebrows.
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we shouldn’t be talking to each other in public,” Shane says, letting his eyes drop to the ground. “I will see you around, Rozanov.”
Shane turns, but a hand grips his wrist with such force that it actually hurts a little. Rozanov pulls him back, his hand like an iron vice to keep Shane in place.
“Don’t walk away from me, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice is a hushed, urgent whisper. “I didn’t think you were this cruel.”
Cruel? Shane isn’t a cruel person and he has no idea why Ilya is saying any of this to him. He furrows his eyebrows, his nose slightly scrunching in the confusion that is clouding his mind.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Shane is starting to get angry now. Angry at Rozanov talking to him like this. Angry at Rozanov grabbing him and pulling him back with such force. Angry at Rozanov for doing all of this in such a public space. Angry at Rozanov for telling him to leave and now demanding he not walk away from him.
Shane knows he is the one that approached Ilya, but he only wanted to know if he was okay. Concern clouding his better judgement, once again. It started to happen more and more often in Ilya’s presence.
“Let me go! You’re hurting me!” Shane’s voice is louder than he intends it to be and it makes Rozanov flinch.
Ilya’s hand drops instantly.
“She came up to me to introduce herself. Irina Rozanova.”
Rozanov’s jaw clenches. “How do you know her name?”
“I just told you!” Shane is starting to grow increasingly annoyed. “She came up to me, introduced herself. She told me her name is Irina Rozanova and that she’s your mom. We talked. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
A coarse and gruff voice interrupts the two of them. Ilya takes a few steps back, as if the presence of Shane has burned him and he can’t get away from him any quicker.
The man behind Ilya speaks in a different language, one Shane immediately recognises as Russian from his hours spent down a youtube rabbit hole of Ilya Rozanov videos.
“Ilya?”
Well, that word he recognises.
Ilya answers the man with his eyes cast down, his back rigid and his shoulders tucked underneath his ears. He turns to Shane, but refuses to meet his eyes.
“Tonight there’s a gala that the minister is hosting.” Ilya’s eyes meet him in full intensity now, Shane is certain he is trying to send him a message–but he has no idea what it is. “My father asks me to invite you to the gala.”
Shane’s eyes flit to Ilya’s father, a looming presence behind Ilya that is expectantly looking at Shane, before he meets Ilya’s gaze again.
“Oh, of course,” he answers.
He watches Ilya’s face fall. Fuck. He hoped that Ilya’s look was trying to communicate to him that he couldn’t say no, but now he thinks that perhaps Ilya was telling him to actually say no.
Fuck you and your horrible way of communicating, Ilya Rozanov.
That’s how Shane finds himself at a Russian gala, in a Russian building with an interior that–quite frankly–hurts his eyes, with Russian officials that he doesn’t know.
Ilya looks handsome. He looks handsome in a way that’s absolutely fucking devastating for Shane’s heart. He looks handsome in a very old-fashioned way. A suit that fits over his broad shoulders, a chic butterfly tie that is slightly crooked–Shane’s fingers itch to fix it–and his blonde curls brushed back and styled in a very elegant way.
Ilya Rozanov looks beautiful.
But Ilya Rozanov also looks miserable. He looks tired. He looks sad.
He watches Ilya, standing in between his father and another Russian man. He doesn’t seem to be listening, his eyes not meeting any of them but staring off into space. Sometimes he absently nods his head, pretending to listen to them.
“Russia is unkind to a boy like my Ilyusha.”
In Shane’s mind, Ilya has always seemed very Russian.
Like how Ilya goes out drinking but never gets drunk no matter how much alcohol he consumes. How very picture of Ilya in a night club has him holding a glass of vodka. Not that Shane spends any time looking up pictures of Ilya going out. . . He doesn’t!
Then there’s the stoic, Slavic expression, the “frowning face” as Hayden often describes it. Hayden said that he hardly ever smiles at anyone around him. Shane hadn’t quite noticed that, because there is always at least that slight tug at the corners of Ilya’s mouth and a glint in his eyes when he looks at Shane. He does notice the way he always tries to get under people’s skin, because Ilya is an expert at getting under Shane’s.
But right now, Ilya doesn’t look like he fits amongst these Russian people at all.
Shane wants to go up to him, ask him to get a drink from the bar with him, even though his glass is still full. Before he can make up his mind, he watches a woman swoop into the scene.
She’s tall, even taller than Ilya is, but that might be because of the heels she is wearing. Her hair is pulled back aside from the few curls framing her face. She looks absolutely gorgeous in her long black dress and shiny jewelry. Shane tries to wrack his brain, wondering if he has seen her somewhere before, but he comes up empty.
She leans on the Russian man that Shane can’t identify. They talk and it takes a few moments before Ilya blinks hard and lets his eyes drift to the woman. She takes his hand and leads him away from the men.
He takes a sharp breath as he watches the two of them walk down the stairs. Part of him wants Ilya to look up and see Shane standing there. He just wants those hazel eyes to meet him for a single moment, but Ilya’s gone and he hasn’t looked at Shane once.
His eye twitches, annoyed, and he throws back the liquid that has become warm in his hand. He grimaces at the strong vodka taste, a tingle reaching all the way to his legs.
“Shane Hollander,” a cold voice says, behind him. “You came.”
Shane turns around, empty glass in his hand, and he meets the eyes of Ilya’s father. From this close, Shane can completely confirm that Ilya looks nothing like his father. Aside from the cold, detached way his eyes look at Shane–Ilya had looked at him that exact way when he told Shane to leave earlier today.
Ilya’s father holds out a hand. “Grigori Rozanov. Ilya’s father.”
Shane chews on his words, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to disappoint his mother by showing bad manners. She’s not here, but he feels like she has a kind of sixth sense when it comes to this and somehow she will just know.
So Shane dips his head. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
Grigori Rozanov’s handshake is tight to the point that it feels like he is trying to intimidate Shane in some way and it’s making him increasingly uncomfortable.
“You need new drink,” Grigori states, his Russian accent thicker than Irina's. “Come.”
Shane wants to protest, but Grigori already has a firm grip on his shoulder and is leading him down to the bar. Another glass of vodka is pressed in his hand and Grigori is looking at him, intensely, holding up his own glass.
Shane clinks his glass against his and, reluctantly, takes a sip. He clenches his jaw, willing his body to not respond to the horrible vodka taste, especially not under the searching gaze of Grigori Rozanov.
“Your son is an incredible hockey player,” Shane says, to break the uncomfortable silence. “I play against him and the Boston team a lot. You must be really proud of him.”
“He lost.”
Two words. Two short words that make Shane’s stomach turn in a horrible way.
“Well, yes,” Shane stammers. “But Boston is currently doing really well and I think they might have a shot at the cup this year.”
It’s true, to Shane’s dismay, the stats all point to the Boston Raiders having a big chance of taking the cup away this year.
Grigori makes a dissatisfied noise. “Who cares about America? Russia is important. Ilya lost.”
Shane mutters a soft “Câlisse” under his breath.
“With all due respect, sir. Ilya did not lose,” Shane says, his voice sounding snappy and defensive in a way that he can’t quite explain and doesn’t even want to think about now. “The Russian team lost. Russia’s goalie was hurt and the team didn’t play well together, that isn’t all on Ilya.”
“You are captain?” Grigori asks. His thick Russian accent makes it difficult for Shane to imply the tone in which he says those words–even more difficult than it normally is for Shane.
“Yes, I am, and Ily–”
Grigori interrupts him. “You know leadership is most important.”
“Yes, but–”
Grigori interrupts him once more. “You are leader. You make them play.”
The knuckles on Grigori’s hand turn white and Shane should probably shut the fuck up, but he can’t help it.
He thinks Ilya is actually a great fucking captain to the Boston Raiders. He doesn’t think there’s any other team in the NHL that looks up to their captain the way that the Boston Raiders look up to Ilya Rozanov.
Any of the Raiders that speak of Rozanov, speak of him with nothing but respect and admiration.
“Sure, Ilya is their captain, but if you have a team that isn’t willing to put aside their egos and differences and play together then it doesn’t matter. Even if their captain is the best hockey player in the entire league, the team will fail. They didn’t appreciate the captain that they had and weren’t willing to help him win–”
“You think Ilya is the best hockey player in the league?” A soft, melodious voice sounds from behind Shane. The woman that led Ilya away earlier joins them. “Hello Shane Hollander.”
Shane eyes her a little hesitantly. “Uh– Hello?”
She says something to Grigori Rozanov in Russian and he watches the man walk away. He’s somewhat relieved, but mostly annoyed, that Ilya’s father leaves. Shane had a whole lot more to say to him. He schools his face into his “boring, but pretty face” as Ilya usually calls it, hiding his annoyance with a tentative smile to the woman in front of him.
She turns back to Shane with a bright smile of her own and an outstretched hand. Shane takes her hand and shakes it. Hers feels soft in his calloused hand.
“Svetlana Vetrova. I’m an old friend of Ilya’s.”
Her voice is pleasant to listen to, gentle and soft with only the slightest hint of a Russian accent. She sounds like she spends a lot of time in America and Shane suppresses the urge to ask her.
“Shane Hollander. I’m a rival of Ilya’s.”
She lets out a soft laugh before she tilts her head, taking him in. “Are you really?”
He swallows hard as he takes his hand back, taking another sip of the vodka just to busy himself.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice low so only Shane can hear her. “For defending Ilya. You’re a brave man to be going up against Grigori Rozanov.”
Shane huffs. “He was wrong and it irks me when someone blames a captain for the failure of a whole team of hockey players. It didn’t sit right with me.” Shane shrugs, trying to go for nonchalance. “I would do that for anyone.”
She smiles. “Of course, you would.”
Shane glares at her tone of voice, but decides not to unpack any of that. He definitely isn’t going to unpack the effect that hearing the English language with a Russian accent from a beautiful person does to his body.
“I’m going to find a bathroom. It was nice meeting you, Svetlana.”
“It was nice meeting you too, Shane Hollander. Your secret is safe with me.”
He gives her a confused look.
“I will not tell Ilya that you think he’s the best player in the league.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the huff of laughter from rolling off his lips. “He wishes. I haven’t retired yet.”
Her laughter fills the air around them. “You’re funny. Don’t let Ilyusha tell you any different, he’s lying.”