Chapter Text
28 December 2017 — Ottawa @ Boston, 1-5
“Bood-RAM.”
Zane closed his eyes for half a second, steeling himself as he heard the unmistakable voice of Ilya Rozanov behind him.
Great.
It had been yet another bad day for the Centaurs.
They’d won only half as many games as Boston had at this point in the season, and tonight they’d managed a mere one goal to Boston’s five. At least Zane had scored it, thus sparing the Centaurs the indignity of a full shutout.
Though it didn’t feel like much of a consolation when compared to Rozanov’s stellar four game performance.
Then again, Zane Boodram had never even bothered to compare himself to Ilya Rozanov, so he didn’t see why he should start now.
Still, his mind had been spinning all game. Rozanov had scored, and scored, and scored, and then, apparently deciding that three goals were insufficiently obnoxious, scored again.
Not just a hat trick, a fucking Texan!
Rozanov had been on an absolute tear so far this season, so Zane didn’t know why he was quite so pissed off that the man was tearing the Centaurs apart too. Lord knew most teams did. Even so, it was one thing for an entire team to demolish you, when it was one singular player doing it, over and over again, it felt a little more personal.
Plus, it wasn’t like Rozanov did it with much grace.
All game, Zane had been forced to listen to him yapping away, seemingly at complete ease as he’d knocked one puck after another into the net, while Zane still felt the single goal they’d put up in every muscle of his body.
No thanks to Rozanov, who, when he’d knocked Zane against the boards, had commented, “that is what I call Bood-ramming.”
Zane had nearly punched him, which he really strived to avoid doing to other players.
Then, after Zane had chased him down the ice in a desperate and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to prevent his fourth goal, Rozanov had sunk it into the net and had called over his shoulder, “Boo-damn, you are very slow.”
The chips were annoying to say the least, but if he was being honest, he supposed he couldn’t be too annoyed that one of the best players in the league seemed to finally know his name.
At least Rozanov didn't resort to the usual hockey-player bigotry when trying to get under Zane’s skin.
Bare fucking minimum, but still, what the hell? Since when did Rozanov even know or care what his name was?
It had been printed on the back of his jersey for the last three seasons, but apparently year four was when Rozanov had suddenly decided that Zane Boodram was worth paying attention to.
But if Rozanov finally did want to learn Zane’s name, could he not have at least pronounced it correctly?
Zane had experienced plenty of assholes in the league calling him all sorts of things. But his last name wasn't even difficult, there were only two syllables, so why the hell did Rozanov put so much emphasis on the second one?
It was entirely aggravating, and, annoyingly, and a little flattering because he still couldn’t get over the fact that Ilya Rozanov actually knew his name now. But that flattery sort of just made him more aggravated. It was a vicious cycle.
It was with this weird mix of annoyance and reluctant cajolery that Zane had exited the locker room after the game in search of a vending machine. He found one in the hallway between locker rooms and sighed in relief when he saw that it had red Gatorade.
He had just pulled out his phone to distract himself for a bit when his mispronounced last name was spoken at him for the third time tonight.
“Bood-RAM.”
He turned to face Ilya Rozanov, who was leaning against the wall beside him, an unlit cigarette held loosely between two fingers in one hand, and his phone in the other.
Zane must have been making more of an offended face than he’d intended, because Rozanov cocked his head slightly, then lifted the hand holding the cigarette.
He made a little motion with his hand. “You want?”
God, Zane sort of did want a smoke right now, just not tobacco, and not with Ilya Rozanov of all people.
“No. And we’re indoors. You can't smoke here anyway.”
Rozanov smirked at something, maybe Zane’s prudishness, or the fact that he could tell he was getting under Zane’s skin.
“Okie. First, I think I know what is allowed in TD Garden better than you.” He pointed at Zane using the hand holding the cigarette. “And second, I was not planning to smoke inside. I just had it out. I will get rid of it.”
The man gestured again.
“No, dude. Don’t litter.”
Rozanov looked slightly offended at the accusation. “I am not going to litter. I am offering to you. Or can put it away if you do not like cigarette smell.”
“Um, no, but thanks, I guess,” Zane said. “I don't mind you, like, having it out or whatever. Do whatever you want.”
“Okie,” he responded, slipping it back into an open pack and pocketing it.
Zane watched him for a second.
While he was surprised Rozanov had offered, he was still pretty pissed at the guy. Taking him in more carefully, he noticed that Rozanov looked just slightly out of breath, as if he’d hurried over from somewhere.
That seemed weird. Not the out-of-breath part, they’d just played a hockey game, and maybe with all the smoking he apparently did, Rozanov’s lungs took a while to recover or something. But it was strange that Rozanov looked like he’d hurried over here, to the vending machines, to Zane.
Maybe he’d been on his way somewhere else and decided to waste some time chirping Zane some more, or maybe he also preferred red Gatorade to the usual yellow provided by Boston. Surely he had enough sway with the team to change the flavors, if that was the case.
But Rozanov made no move toward the vending machine. He didn’t check his phone either. He simply stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, looking at Zane with some same strange, assessing expression, like he was filing things away.
Zane had noticed that look on the ice before, mostly because it was part of what made Rozanov such a nightmare to play against. He seemed to know what people were going to do before they knew themselves.
Apparently, he did it off the ice, too. Zane shifted his weight, readying himself to leave. “So…”
Rozanov straightened slightly. “Good game tonight,” he said. “From you, at least. Very good goal.”
Zane blinked, surprised at the compliment, even if it had also been a dig at the Centaurs.
If Rozanov wasn't going outside to smoke, wasn't taking a call, and wasn't getting a fucking Gatorade, Zane had no idea why he was voluntarily staying to talk to a random winger from Ottawa. “Um. Thanks. You too.”
Rozanov’s face lit up. “Yes, was fun. I have not had four-goal game in a few seasons, so thank you.”
Zane wasn't entirely sure if Rozanov was thanking him for the compliment or for being on a team that allowed the goals to happen, but he decided not to ask.
Rozanov seemed determined to continue the conversation anyway. “You have scored hat trick before?”
“No.”
“Ah, you will soon, I bet. Is a fun feeling.”
Zane highly doubted he would be scoring a hat trick anytime soon, but saw no reason to point it out, and decided to take it as a compliment.
Rozanov added, “Raiders will go out tonight and celebrate this fun feeling. Maybe have a drink, even though we have game tomorrow, I think. Do the rest of wonderful non-goal-scoring Centaurs want to come too?”
Zane stared at him, flummoxed at how this conversation was going. A night out with Ilya Rozanov could be very, very interesting.
But he was also reluctant at the prospect. If everything he'd heard about Rozanov's outings were true, Zane wasn't entirely convinced he would enjoy whatever kind of night the guy had planned.
Zane didn’t go out clubbing much anyways, he preferred bars and barbecues. Growing up, his parents had always warned him to be careful, especially about doing anything that could get him in trouble, or make him look threatening or stupid.
The latter had never been said in quite those words, but it didn't really need to be. Throughout his teens on various hockey teams he had steadily learned a set of helpful rules: don't get too drunk, don't get into fights, don't be the loudest person in the room, and don't give anyone a reason to decide you are exactly what they already assumed you were.
Zane had learned those rules young, and Ilya Rozanov had certainly broken every one of them if his reputation outside of hockey had any truth to it.
In juniors, it had been easier to simply stay in. His teammates would go out, and Zane would make some excuse or head back to the hotel. Dallas Kent had always been particularly good at turning a night out into scenes that involved security, yelling, and doing something stupid enough that the whole team, including the coaches, heard about it the following morning.
He had had no interest in being part of that, especially because Kent was a racist little fucker who always seemed to have had something to say to Zane. So, once Zane had turned eighteen, he still mostly stuck to Canadian clubs. Partying hard had never seemed worth the risk, not when he knew exactly how quickly one stupid decision could become a story someone else got to tell about him.
He'd worked too hard to become someone people trusted, and he wasn't going to throw that away for a night out with Ilya Rozanov, even if he was legal in the States now, and even if the Russian seemed strangely keen on befriending him tonight.
Rozanov seemed to absorb his reluctance as his head cocked again. He looked like a snake tamer, eyes boring into Zane’s as if preemptively searching for his response.
“Eh you are only like 22,” he said. “Fine if you do not want to go out. We can do something else. Like…bowling or something?”
It was Zane’s turn to raise an eyebrow, because apparently Rozanov knew both his name and his age now.
And, after everything he'd heard about Rozanov's legendary tromps around various cities, he’d hardly expected the man’s alternative to clubbing to be bowling.
“You want to celebrate your four-goal performance by going bowling with the opposing team?” He couldn't help himself. “What, to really rub it in our faces?”
Roz smirked, looking as cocky as ever. “Bowling is fun. Why would I not want to celebrate by winning again? You do not have winning in Ottawa, so what, you do not have fun or bowling in Ottawa either?”
Zane laughed, sue him, the guy was funny even if he was chirping the entire Centaurs franchise. And it's not like what he was saying was wrong. “We do. I'm just surprised this seems to be a hobby for you.”
“Hmm, yes, fun game, could be fun night.” Rozanov seemed to consider further, then asked, “Ottawa is nice, yes?”
Zane frowned. Rozanov’s eyes were fixed on him with that same peculiar intensity he had in games. Like he wasn't just asking because he'd run out of things to say in this already strange conversation, but because he actually wanted to know the answer.
“Yeah,” Zane said. “Of course. It's a great place. And a great team.”
Rozanov’s eyebrow raised ever higher. “Great team,” he repeated back slowly and quietly, not even inflecting it as a question
Zane felt the need to clarify anyway. “My teammates are great. Management is great. It's a fun time. And it's a nice city… lots of, um, bowling alleys. It's really a good time”
He didn't add for a team that's shit at hockey, he figured Rozanov could probably infer that part.
“That is good,” Rozanov nodded slowly, “you can brush up on skills in your great city with all the bowling alleys, and maybe finally bring bowling championship to Ottawa. Not Stanley Cup yet, though, I do not think.”
And, damn it, Zane scoffed again, it slipped out before he could stop it. Fine, fine, Rozanov was a hoot.
His chirps were funnier than average, and apparently he could be kind without even turning off the asshole act. At least his assholery was entertaining. He was also somehow inviting Zane and his teammates to go bowling instead of whatever wild night out he probably originally had planned. It was…weirdly nice.
“Thanks for the invite, man,” Zane said. “But we're actually flying out tonight. Trying to take advantage of being home for almost a whole week, you know?”
Man, emotions seemed to speed through this guy’s eyes at light speed, too quick for Zane to pick up on them, but there was definitely something there. Understanding, maybe? Then it was gone.
“Yes,” Rozanov said. “I know.” He looked down at his phone, his thumb moving across the screen for a moment before holding it out toward Zane. “Here. Give me your number. For next time we play each other, maybe we can go bowling. Or something. Does not have to be bowling, was only suggestion.”
Zane’s eyes flicked between the phone and Rozanov. “Uh…?.”
There was a faint smile tugging at Rozanov's mouth. “Come on.”
Zane took it and typed in his number, still trying to figure out what series of events had led to this moment. Ilya Rozanov had his fucking phone number. He couldn’t really process how they'd gotten here.
“Yeah,” Zane said, handing the phone back and trying to act casual. “I mean, we play each other again in a few days. Maybe we could do something when you're in Ottawa.”
“Mmm. Canadian New Year. Very fun. I hear from best player on Centaurs that it is wonderful city.”
Zane recognized now that the teasing in Rozanov’s voice seemed more warm than mean, and he smiled at the compliment despite himself.
Rozanov looked down at the phone again. He typed, slowly speaking out what he was typing, “Zane Bood-RAM.”
Zane's little burst of friendliness deflated, the smile falling immediately from his lips.
“It's Bood-rum,” he corrected quickly and a little more coldly than he'd intended after ten minutes of warming up to the guy. “Not ‘RAM’.”
Rozanov’s fingers froze on his screen, and his eyes flicked back up to Zane.
“Ah,” he typed something. “Ah, I see now. I will remember this for next time,” he tapped the phone with his thumbs a few more times, his tongue pressed between his teeth in concentration.
Rozanov turned the phone around to show the contact on the screen:
Boodram (🥃Rum)
Zane stared at it, and let out another burst of laughter. “You weren't doing that on purpose?”
“Ah, no, just different pronunciation in my Russian mind, I think.” Rozanov gestured aimlessly at his head and shrugged unapologetically but still carefully assessing. “But I will make sure to say correctly next time. Or in interviews when it comes up.”
Zane couldn't think of a single situation in which Ilya Rozanov would ever need to mention his name in an interview, but he supposed he could appreciate the effort.
“Cool. Well, hey, most of my hockey people just call me Bood. So maybe if we do meet up a different time and you buy me a drink, you can call me that and avoid the whole second syllable altogether, yeah?”
Rozanov grinned before sticking his hand out towards Zane. “Yes, this would be nice.”
Zane shook it. “Great. Well, see you around, Rozanov.”
He released the hand and turned to leave, noticing another look quickly flit across the man’s face.
After he’d already passed Rozanov in the hallway, he heard a much quieter, “Rozanov.”
Zane turned his body halfway back. “Huh?”
Rozanov looked less confident than he had a moment before, and was standing fully upright now.
“It is pronounced Ro-ZA-nov. With emphasis on the,” he held up two fingers as if giving a peace sign, “second syllable.”
Zane blinked, and turned fully back to the man, who was looking quite earnest now.
“You would think maybe with Stanley Cup, MVP awards, and first draft pick, ESPN might know how to pronounce. But no.” He made a wry face. “It is not Eel-e-ya RO-zuh-nov. It is Eel-ya Ro-ZA-nov.” He paused, “you know, like, I do not hear them saying Hoe-llander.”
Zane let out a startled snicker. “Yeah. They certainly don't say that.”
Rozanov, apparently pleased that Zane appreciated his wordplay, switched his face back from serious to grinning. “Yes.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know. I'll make sure to say it correctly next time. Or, you know, in interviews when it comes up.” He was sure Rozanov’s name would certainly show up more than his.
Rozanov smiled even wider now. “Yes. And it is okay because my hockey people call me Roz. So when I buy you a drink next time, then you can call me that and we can avoid whole second syllable thing, yes?”
“It's a deal. Bye, Rozanov.” Zane waved, and he made sure to pronounce it correctly this time.
Bye, Boodram.” Rozanov lifted a hand as well, correcting his own pronunciation this time as well.
Zane walked away shaking his head. He couldn't believe that whole interaction had just happened.
He was excited to get home, to spend his birthday and New Year's in Ottawa. Maybe having to play Boston again there on New Year's Eve would be cleansing. One last tromping before a brand-new year.
Maybe the fact that Ilya fucking Rozanov of all people had just tried to befriend him was a sign, too. Of what, he had no idea.
But maybe it meant that 2018 would turn out to be different.
***
The next morning, Zane had a text waiting on his phone.
Unknown number: hi from Eel-ya Ro-ZA-nov
Zane stared at it for a second and then changed the contact name to:
Rozanov (🪱Eel)
He sent Rozanov a screenshot.
When he checked his phone again, he saw the response.
Rozanov (🪱Eel): 😌
Zane grinned.
When he told Cassie about the entire encounter over breakfast, she cackled. “So,” she said, once she'd recovered enough to speak, “the great Ilya Rozanov has decided to become a professional bowler?”
“Apparently.”
“Did he explain why?”
“No.”
“Did he explain why he suddenly knows your name?”
“No.”
“Did he explain why he wanted your phone number?”
“No. I suppose it's because I’m just such an approachable and friendly guy"
Cassie looked at him skeptically and Zane stared back. “Cass, I'm really choosing to focus on the bowling.”
“That seems wise. You should go out with him on New Year's Eve after the game if he's so adamant.”
“Nah. I want to spend it with you. And I still don’t know what to make of him. And we have to get everything ready for the barbecue. It's the second year of it, I’m trying to turn it into a tradition!”
“I don’t know, I wouldn't mind seeing Ilya Rozanov in his partying prime,” she teased. “But maybe if he's into bowling he'd be into barbecues too.”
“Yeah. I guess I could invite him,” Zane thought about it. “Chewy's said he might bring some friends, and I told Dykstra he could bring some too. I want to make sure he feels comfortable on the team with the mid-season trade.”
“Wow, so you inviting Rozanov means you’re officially calling him your friend after only ten minutes together. That man truly is a player. He can get just about anyone to want to be around him, can't he?”
“What can I say? He charmed me. I literally have no idea how, but it worked,” Zane chuckled. Then he hesitated. “You don't think it would be weird to invite, like, a rival player no one knows to it, do you?”
“Honey, I don't know if anyone is really your guys' rival right now,” she smiled sweetly, “least of all Ilya Rozanov.”
Zane narrowed his eyes at her. “Rude,” he said with mock offense.
“I'm just saying, my darling, winning, wonderful man.”
So Zane sent an invite by text to Rozanov. The response came much more quickly than he'd expected.
Rozanov (🪱Eel): thank you for invite Boodram
Rozanov (🪱Eel): i have plans for new year break so cannot go to your canadian barbecue
Rozanov (🪱Eel): hopefully next year i will try your meat
It brought a startled laugh out of Zane.
“Hopefully next year,” he muttered.
They ended up losing 5-0 to the Raiders on New Years Eve, so maybe it really was better if his post-Christmas barbecue stayed Centaurs-only for now.