Chapter Text
“Is everything you dreamed of?”
The words were challenging, the jut of Rozanov’s chin was challenging, Shane couldn’t help but rise to the challenge.
“Almost,” he taunted.
Rozanov pulled a face, tipping his head to the side in acknowledgment. “Sorry.”
He nearly laughed, shaking his head. “No you’re not.”
“Montreal is…is nice, yes?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome.” That was a fact, never mind that he’d fallen half in love with Boston already while researching the city.
“Boston is nice too?”
Shane blinked, Rozanov’s accent ringing through his ears.
“I think so,” he replied slowly. “People like it there.” He hesitated, and then added, “I think I would have liked it there. Do you…know much about Boston?”
“Is not Russia,” Rozanov returned.
“Yeah, well, this is the MHL, not the KHL,” he countered. “Look, we both know I thought I’d be going first in the draft.” He hurried on before Rozanov could offer another fake apology. “I have a whole spreadsheet about Boston. If you want to go back and shower and then meet me in my room, we could go over it together. It’s not like either of us is sleeping tonight.”
Rozanov raised his eyebrows, looking almost impressed. “What is your room number?” he asked.
“1410,” he replied.
“So if I come to 1410 at-,” Rozanov paused, glancing at the wall clock, “2 o’clock…?”
Shane smiled, glad that they were on the same page. “I’ll open,” he assured the other boy.
Rozanov’s gaze sharpened. “I will knock.”
Shane went back to his room and took a quick shower, pulling on his softest clothes in preparation for a long night. He took out his laptop and booted it up, clicking into his Favourites folder. The cursor lingering over his ‘Boston’ spreadsheet, before he clicked into it. There were 8 tabs, each meticulously colour-coded and numbered.
A knock had him looking up. 2 o’clock, right on the dot.
Shane hurried to the door, checking through the peephole that it was Rozanov before opening the door.
“Hey, I’m glad you came,” he said. “You can take your shoes off; I’ve left you a pair of hotel slippers.”
Rozanov raised his eyebrows. “Is thing for you?”
Shane blinked, startled. “Um. It’s just basic hygiene? They probably deep-clean the carpets once a year, at most.”
Rozanov tipped his head, his curls bouncing with the motion. “Okay.” He obediently kicked off his sneakers, sliding his socked feet into the spare slippers.
“C’mon,” Shane beckoned, and then paused, considering the configuration of the room. He’d fit well enough on a single bed, which meant that Rozanov would, too, but it was kind of weird to be seated so far apart, especially when he wanted the Russian to look at his laptop.
He started at the touch on his waist, the heat of Rozanov’s large hand almost blistering. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Help me move the bedside table, and then we can push the beds together.”
Rozanov raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you think is not enough?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Maybe we showered and don’t smell anymore, but I know it’s not enough space. Put those muscles to work.”
The Russian blew a raspberry at him. “Bossy,” he grumbled, shrugging off his leather jacket. Shane froze, caught by the sudden expanse of bare skin revealed by his black tank top. He shook his head to rouse himself, walking to the closet for a hanger.
“I’ll hang it up,” he offered, “You can handle the table, and we can move the bed together.”
“I can handle many things,” Rozanov said with a wink. Shane…had no idea how to respond to that, so he didn’t. At least the Russian was true to his word, easily lifting the table as his muscles bunched under its weight.
“Wait, the phone!” Shane yelped, diving to snatch it as the cord pulled tight. He chucked it on the desk before moving to the head of the second bed.
“I’ve got the head, get the feet,” he told the Russian.
“You want my feet?” Rozanov asked with a frown.
Shane laughed. “The bottom?” he tried. “Y’know, the other end of the bed,” he explained, pointing. He bent over to take ahold of the head. “Lift on three. One-two-three-!”
The lift was almost effortless for such a bulky piece of furniture. Shane looked up, a little startled, and found Rozanov already looking back.
They put the beds together, and Shane dusted his hands off, smiling at a job well done. “There’s more room for us now,” he declared. “Did you bring foolscap, or-?”
Rozanov looked confused. “Bring what?”
“Oh, sorry, is that a Canadian thing?” Shane asked. “Never mind, I have a spare notebook you can use, and here’s a pen.” He clambered across the beds, pulling his laptop towards him. Rozanov was still standing at the foot, having directed his confused look towards the pen and notebook in his hands. Shane patted the bed beside him. “I did make my bed and the other one is clean, you don’t have to worry.”
Rozanov carefully sat, still holding the pen and notebook like he'd never used either one in his life.
“So- where do you want to start? With neighbourhoods to live in, tourist places, eating recommendations- oh, but I don’t know your preferences-.”
“Hollander, what is all this?” Rozanov interrupted. “What is- prefre- perfer-?”
“Oh, sorry,” he blurted out, sitting upright. “Preferences, as in, things you like. I mean, you wanted to know about Boston, right? Since you’re moving there in the fall. Um, autumn.”
Rozanov’s heavy stare ticked between his face and his laptop screen. “This is-?”
“Oh.” Shane cleared his throat, feeling his ears heat up. “I told you in the gym, remember? That I had a spreadsheet about Boston. It’s all on my laptop now but we could print it out, in the conference room downstairs?” He tried for a casual shrug, his gaze drifting off to the side. “I mean, if you still want.”
Rozanov stared at him for a long moment before he let out a soft huff, bouncing closer to him on the bed and making Shane grab for his laptop with a squawk. “I still want,” he declared. “Tell me Boston secrets.”
“They’re not secrets-!”
"You tell me which ones you like," Rozanov interrupted, "and we do them together when you are on roadie."
Shane bit his lip, trying to swallow back his smile. "Really?" he asked shyly.
“After we do Boston secrets, we do Montreal secrets,” Rozanov continued. He jabbed Shane’s own pen at him, stopping just short of his nose. “You will not use ‘no Montreal sheet’ for excuse when I win.”
The laugh burst out of his chest, part-relief, part-amusement. “Fuck you, asshole, that’s not going to happen.”
“You want me to fuck your asshole when I win?”
Shane laughed even harder, shoving Rozanov on the shoulder. He tried not to think too much about how his fingers tingled at the touch of the Russian’s bare skin.
“Shut up, you know that’s not what I meant. C’mon, where do you wanna start?”
Yuna smiled to herself despite having to hunt down her missing son. Shane was undoubtedly the best Canadian hockey player of his age, no matter the draft results. Besides, draft picks didn’t always work out. David had to point out that at least Shane would be closer to home, and his playstyle was more akin to the Voyageurs’ than the Bears’ practice of physical aggression. It was a bit of a pity that Shane’s Boston spreadsheet would go to waste, but she was certain they’d come up with a better one for Montreal. For her and David, too, it would be nice to revisit their university stomping grounds, maybe even uncover a handful of old make-out spots.
She giggled to herself as she knocked on Shane’s door, before using his spare keycard to let herself in.
The sight that greeted her was not something she could have ever imagined.
Shane was there, thankfully - right beside Ilya Rozanov, both boys fast asleep across the two beds that they’d pushed together, surrounded by loose papers and pens, with Shane’s open laptop gone dead between them. Her eye darted across the room, spying where the bedside table had been shoved under the window to make space, the hotel phone lying unplugged on the desk - that was why she hadn’t been able to get through to his room.
Yuna crept closer, curious. The papers were covered in multilingual scribbles - she recognised Shane’s chicken scrawl in English, French, and even some clumsy Japanese: she snorted when she read <バカのボストン> as a header over an unfamiliar alphabet, probably Russian. Rozanov’s handwriting was far more elegant than she would have thought and far more legible than Shane’s, even if his English grammar was rudimentary.
To her surprise, she recognised several of the names and places in Rozanov’s papers, having built Shane’s Boston spreadsheet right alongside him. There was also a sheet under Shane’s hand with LEAPH POCCIAH! in Rozanov’s writing in the margins, filled with Montreal hotspots that catered to her son’s interests.
Despite her initial misgivings about Rozanov, she was enough of an adult to acknowledge that he was as much of a boy as her baby, and regardless of the draft results, they’d clearly found some common ground between them. Yuna couldn’t be too harsh with him, not when Shane so rarely befriended kids his age.
She rapped her knuckles on the desk, loudly clearing her throat.
Rozanov started awake first, looking around blearily with a piece of paper stuck to his face. It took a moment for him to notice her, but when he did- Yuna couldn’t help sucking in a breath at the almost violent intensity on his face, suddenly realising just why the Russian was so feared at centre ice.
He instantly reached over, blocking Shane. “Is my fault,” he growled.
Yuna glanced between them, knocked off-kilter by Rozanov’s reaction. He really was just a scared kid. “No, honey, it’s not anyone’s fault,” she said slowly, keeping her hands visible between them. “It looks like the two of you were busy last night.”
Rozanov’s frown only deepened. The sheet of paper finally detached from the side of his face, fluttering onto the bedspread. It didn’t make him look any less intimidating.
“But you should probably go wash up- breakfast will be over in about an hour,” she continued, stating the reason why she’d come up here in the first place.
“Mum?” Shane had never been a morning person, regardless of his rigorous training schedule. He curled onto his side, seemingly unbothered by Rozanov’s arm across his chest. “Whatchu doing here?” he mumbled.
“I came to wake you both after you overslept and your phone didn’t ring through,” Yuna said tartly, noticing the way Rozanov’s eyes ticked between them warily.
“Both? Oh!” Shane pushed upright, levering himself into a seat with the help of Rozanov’s arm- one that was clad in one of David’s old hoodies, she realised, the McGill one Shane had appropriated for his own.
“Mum, this is Ilya. Rozanov.” They both raised their eyebrows at him for naming the elephant in the room. “But you already knew that.” Shane wasn’t looking at either of them, entirely focused on Rozanov’s sleeve- his sleeve. “We got caught up last night, talking about Boston and Montreal.”
“That’s fine,” Yuna coaxed, since Rozanov still hadn’t relaxed. “But you should get up now if either of you want any breakfast.”
“Blyat,” Rozanov bit out, eyes darting to the wall clock. “I have early flight back to Russia.”
“Shit,” Shane cursed, tugging on Rozanov’s sleeve. “Will you make it in time?”
“I will try,” Rozanov muttered, gathering up his papers to tuck into a notebook- also one of Shane’s, Yuna was tickled to notice.
“I’ll email you the rest of the spreadsheet,” Shane offered. “See you in September.”
Rozanov lingered with his handful of papers. “You will be okay?” he asked cautiously, blocking Shane from her with the bulk of his body. There had been…little clues Yuna had been adding together from his behaviour since she’d startled the boys awake. She didn’t like the equation she was getting.
Shane just smiled back, soft and sweet. “I’ll learn Montreal like the back of my hand just so that I can say I beat you fair and square.”
Rozanov huffed out a laugh, his shoulders rounding. “You will not be so nice when Bears win.”
“That’s not happening,” Shane retorted, his smile widening.
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov replied, nodding shallowly in her direction as he eeled out of the room almost silently, giving her a wide berth as he switched out his hotel slippers for his sneakers. Shane flopped back down as if Rozanov’s arm had been all that was holding him up.
“My mouth tastes like something died inside,” he grumbled.
“Then you’d better start brushing,” Yuna told him, unsympathetically. “How do you even find yourself in these situations?”
Shane shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the gym. Rozanov showed up, and like I said, we got to talking about Boston and Montreal, and you know about my spreadsheet. Sure, I would’ve been moving countries, but at least we speak the same language and culturally, we’re not that far apart. He’s moving continents, Mum.”
Yuna had to relent then.
“And then he said we had start a Montreal spreadsheet for me, too, because- get this: he didn’t want any excuses if I lost come September.”
“What an asshole,” she blurted out.
Shane giggled, sounding happier than she’d heard him in months. “I know, right?”
They made it downstairs faster than she expected, Shane having rushed through his morning routine after realising Rozanov had left his leather jacket behind.
"It was silly to wear in bed, so I lent him a jumper," he explained, clutching the jacket to his chest. "If Rozanov’s already left, he'll have to email me his home address."
“With all these delays, you’re lucky Dad’s already saved us a table,” she muttered.
As it was, Rozanov wasn’t hard to find at all: he was in the lobby arguing with the reception, clearly frustrated but trying to keep his temper under control.
Shane hurried over first, Yuna following more slowly. “Hey,” he said, reaching for the Russian’s elbow. “Is everything okay?”
“No, Hollander, is not,” Rozanov said tersely. “My father is gone. My room is gone. My stuff is gone.”
“Wait, what?” Shane exclaimed. “How’s that possible?”
“I want to know this, too,” Rozanov snapped. “My father did not call. Is still my room, I have card key!”
Yuna stepped up then, holding up a hand. She watched him identify her as the latest threat, not unlike a feral cat.
“Tell me what happened after you left Shane’s room,” she said clearly. The Russian glanced at Shane and only began speaking after he nodded encouragingly.
According to Rozanov, he’d gone back to his room, only to discover his things gone and a room attendant already switching out the sheets. Next, he'd tried his father’s room, only to be greeted by yet another room attendant. Then, he’d gone to the reception to try and find what had happened, where he learnt that his father had already checked out and left for the airport.
“Why would you check out Mr Rozanov the younger when it was the elder who was leaving?” Yuna asked the receptionist.
The young man behind the desk straightened under her attention. “Mr Rozanov agreed that his party was checking out, so-.”
“Agreed?” Yuna echoed. “Did you clarify his understanding of ‘party’?”
“It- it was known that- that both Misters Rozanov had checked in together-.”
“And did you not think to ask if they would be checking out together?” Yuna asked pointedly. “Especially when neither he nor his belongings were present?” She wasn’t even going to get into the fact that Grigory Rozanov had simply abandoned his teenaged son in a foreign country with nothing but the clothes on his back. No, it was Shane’s clothes literally on his back. This should have been a happy, proud occasion for Rozanov, not one that left him flushed with frustration and embarrassment.
“Regardless, the official check out time isn’t for another two hours and yet Ilya’s belongings were already gone from his room,” Yuna steamrollered on, catching the boy’s start at the use of his given name. “Shane, why don’t the two of you head to the restaurant first? You boys need to eat.” It wasn’t really a suggestion. “Dad already has a table for us.”
“Complimentary breakfast is tied to the room, isn’t it?” Shane fretted. “And Roz’s room is- well.”
Yuna stared expectantly at the receptionist, who instantly reached for a breakfast coupon. She continued to stare at the poor young man who had recently made a series of terrible life choices and whose morning she was about to ruin.
“Jeffrey Lowes, was it?” She noted his nametag. “Let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?”
Jeffrey Lowes promptly began to whimper.
It was quite unlike Shane to oversleep, but David supposed he could be forgiven this night of all nights. He sniggered quietly to himself at the outrageous thought of his son sneaking out to celebrate, only to choke on his coffee when Shane arrived at the hotel restaurant alongside Ilya Rozanov, the two boys walking so close together they were practically stepping on each other’s heels. Shane was clutching an uncharacteristic leather jacket to his chest while David recognised the jumper on Rozanov’s back; it had once been his, from McGill.
Shane rushed over as he sputtered into a napkin, dropping the jacket onto an extra chair. “Dad! You okay?”
“Yeah,” he wheezed, wiping his chin. “Went down the wrong pipe.” He coughed, thumping his chest. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”
The boys glanced at each other.
“Um, Dad. I think you know Ilya Rozanov.”
“May have heard that name a time or two.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Daaaaad,” he whined.
David turned to the Russian, meeting his cautious gaze with a smile. “I’m David,” he introduced himself. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but that would just get coffee all over you.”
Rozanov nodded back, silent and watchful.
“Where’s Mum?” he decided to ask Shane. He knew he hit jackpot when his boy’s face immediately crinkled into a scowl.
“The hotel messed up and returned Roz’s room before he checked out,” he huffed. “Even his stuff is gone, so Mum’s getting it sorted.”
“She’s terrorising the receptionist into signing over his firstborn, isn’t she?” David asked.
Shane smiled. “That’s about the long and short of it.” He gently bumped Rozanov’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t worry,” he told the other boy, “Mum will fix it.”
“Yuna is a witch,” David assured Rozanov, although judging by his expression, that was more confusing than clarifying. “I’ll just go help her out while you boys have breakfast.”
Shane sent him a grateful look. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Da, spasibo,” Rozanov said automatically, only to shake his head and add brusquely, “Thank you.”
David offered him another smile as he got to his feet, making sure to go the long way around. Rozanov didn’t stop tracking him, his weight shifting as if he was about to put himself between David and his son.
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” David told him. “Yuna loves to problem-solve; you probably made her day.”
His wife was exactly where the boys said she’d be, arms folded across her chest as she stared down the clearly terrified young man behind the reception.
“I think you have some people you need to talk to right now,” she was saying as David drew within earshot.
The young man took that for the cue it was and bolted.
“If you curse him,” David wheedled, “we’re never going to be able to stay here again.”
Yuna scoffed. “Why would we when their quality of service is so slipshod? I will be leaving a review.”
“Also, when were you going to tell me our son picked up a stray hockey player overnight?”
She began to snicker. “Where do I even start?”
“Well, there are about-,” he glanced at his wristwatch, “15 more minutes till the boys are kicked out of breakfast. That’s enough time to fill me in, you think?”
“You had to see it to believe it,” Yuna told him. “I saw it and even I’m having a hard time believing it!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, given how Ilya Rozanov showed up to breakfast with our son wearing my old hoodie-.”
Yuna dissolved into giggles.
“Are we also going to talk about how that boy in there seems to think-”
“-that we’ll hit him or Shane if he says the wrong thing and keeps trying to protect Shane anyway?” she finished grimly, her mouth pulling into a humourless smile. “Let’s not even get into how his father simply abandoned him in a foreign country.”
David smiled at his vengeful, ruthless wife. “We’re keeping him, aren’t we?”
Yuna sniffed. “If Grigory Rozanov wanted to object, he should be here to do so in person.”
“And it has nothing to do with how friendly Shane and Rozanov are?” he pointed out.
“Our son is terrible with people.”
“Well-.”
“And Rozanov is entirely too perceptive. Maybe- maybe they can balance each other out,” Yuna hedged. “Just for a little while. Until we clear this whole mess up.”
David chuckled, putting an arm around her waist. “I can't deny that Shane sure knows how to pick ‘em. Had to be literally the only other player in the world his age that could give him a run for his money.”
Yuna straightened as this morning’s sacrificial lamb plodded glumly back, his manager in tow. She looked ready for war.
David really did love his wife.