Work Text:
Vancouver July, 2010
Yuna’s phone chimes as she presses the button on the wall next to the elevator bay pulling her gaze and focus. Now that Shane has officially been drafted into the MLH, it seems her phone never stops making noise between the emails, texts, and calls of all the people wanting to make a deal with her wonderful son. This time, it’s an email from Farah, Shane’s new agent. It is probably important. As she begins to read, a ding echoes in the space announcing the arrival of a lift. The doors directly in front of her start opening and she moves to board. She stops short upon looking up and seeing the occupant already in the elevator.
Ilya Rozanov, the boy her son seems destined to clash with, stands braced against the back wall looking just as startled to see her.
Well this will be awkward. She steps into the elevator and Rozanov shifts over closer to the wall. She takes the other side to put some space between them. The doors close and she keeps her gaze stiffly forward.
Rozanov glances at her then asks, “What floor?” gesturing to the panel in front of him. She looks over but can’t tell what floor he is getting off on with the way his body blocks half the buttons.
“Ground floor,” she says, words slipping out in shock by his offer to help her. She quickly composes herself and remembers her own manners, “Thank you.”
He reaches for the button but pauses before hitting it. “This elevator is going up.” He gestures with his hand and her eyes follow it to the red illuminated up arrow at the top of the panel. Shit, she must have hit the wrong button in her haste to answer her phone and hadn’t noticed.
“Oh, my bad. Let me off at the next floor then please,” she says.
He nods and tries to hit the button for the next floor. It doesn’t light, so he pushes the button for a few floors up instead.
They stand in silence. She keeps her eye on him as he shifts his body to angle towards her, crossing his arms. His eyes are calculating as he takes her in.
She realizes that she’s never actually spoken to him. She’s seen him from afar at the draft and watched him play from the stands. She’s read several articles about his development into a player worth choosing over her own son for first overall. She’s even sat and watched hours of his tape with Shane. But in all that, she’s never thought about who Ilya Rozanov is up close. He may not even know who she is, or that she is aware of him.
Sticking out her hand, she makes to introduce herself.
“Yuna. Yuna Hollander. Pleasure to meet you.”
He eyes her hand cautiously before taking it, a faint flicker of amusement flashes in his eyes that he schools before she can parse it.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he says, “Nice to meet you too.” He lets go and crosses his arms again, seeming content to wait this elevator ride out.
“This was a great opportunity for you boys,” she says, determined to drag this conversation out and learn a little more about the boy her son referred to as a bit of a dick. So far, he’s much politer than Yuna expected, “You and Shane are both in such high demand. And marketing the rivalry like this can only help with that in the future.”
“Yes.”
“Of course, you'll have to keep up with Shane if you want it to stay that way.”
A familiar smirk takes over his face, transforming the cautious boy she’s been talking to into the hockey player she’s seen on the ice. “I think I can keep up with second best hockey player in the league, yes?”
She can’t stop the snort of disbelief at the cockiness this kid operates on, and the audacity to think he’s better than her son. But she does find it a bit charming that they haven’t even played a game in the MLH yet and he is already calling the two of them the best. Privately, she might agree- even if she switches the order.
“Shane won your last game against each other,” she reminds him.
“Mhm, yes,” he agrees, a mischievous glint in his eye, “But I won game before that. And I won draft, so am still ahead.”
She scoffs, “I wouldn’t brag about getting drafted to Boston.”
The glint drops and his face closes off. The change startles her.
“Boston is not nice?” he asks. She wants to call his voice timid, if it wasn’t Rozanov she is talking to. “Hollander said… he said people like it there?”
Hiding her surprise that Shane and Rozanov have apparently had a civil enough conversation at some point to talk about the cities they’ve been drafted to, his question gives her a moment to consider something she’s been pushing away in favor of feeling only animosity for her son’s rival.
He’s just a boy.
Rozanov is a young man, the same age as her own son, who is moving across an ocean to a country that doesn’t speak his language, to a city he’s never been to before, and, as far as she knows, he doesn’t know anyone there. She tries to picture Shane handling the same situation and immediately sees the panic attack he would have. Shane would be so scared.
Rozanov must be scared, even if he’s putting on a brave face.
Her face softens at the thought. “Sorry, Boston is fine," she says. The elevator dings and they come to a stop. “I’m just a life long Metros fan, so I’m a bit prejudiced.” The doors open.
She moves to get off but stops and turns back to him again, “Well, it was nice to meet you,” she says, holding out her hand once again for him to shake.
The door starts to close, but Rozanov intercepts it with his foot, a grin of absolute delight on his face as he examines her outstretched hand. He takes it in his and shakes it.
“You are a good mama to Hollander. He is very lucky to have you.” The grin wasn’t mocking, more fascinated and earnest. He meant every word.
She makes a decision.
He moves to pull back and let the doors close, but she stops him.
“Wait,” she calls.
He stops the door again and looks at her curiously.
She digs in her bag and pulls out a newly minted business card stating she is Shane’s manager with her contact information on it. It’s a simplistic modern design. She got Shane matching ones to hand out at sponsor events.
“Here,” she says, handing it to him, “in case you need to get in contact. I’m sure there will be more opportunities to bolster the rivalry like this, but if you need to reach out for any reason, you’ll have my number and can call.”
He reads over it and nods, a quiet “thank you” passes his lips before letting the doors finally close. She made sure she hit the down arrow this time.
She watches the numbers above the door tick up slowly until they stop on 12. Presumably, Rozanov gets off there. Someone else must have got on then, because it goes up to 14 before it heads back down to her. She gets in the now empty elevator and goes about her business.
In the next month and a half, Yuna nearly forgets about her little one on one with Rozanov.
She’s busy getting Shane ready for the upcoming season with the Metros. The phone is ringing off the hook with brands wanting to make a deal with Shane. And while some aren’t worth Shane’s time, she’s almost secured the ambassadorship with Rolex. She can’t wait to tell him once it goes through.
Then, there’s the problem of housing. He needs to find an apartment in Montreal, so she’s apartment hunting with Shane. Once they find one to Shane’s (and her) standards, she and David take a weekend to help him move his belongings. In all the multi-tasking, it slips her mind that Ilya Rozanov is probably going through the same motions as Shane to get ready for the season.
That is until she gets a phone call.
She’s sitting at the island counter in her kitchen, laptop open to an email she’s just received from City Seltzer, a local drink company asking to do a partnership with Shane. She’ll need to forward the email to him to see if he’s interested, but from her own research into the company, it looks like a good deal. The coffee in her mug has just touched her lips when her phone starts ringing on the counter.
Picking it up, she doesn’t immediately recognize the number or even the area code. It’s not a number she has saved, but she’s been getting more and more calls from numbers she doesn’t know as Shane’s publicity continues to grow. She clicks to answer.
“Yuna Holland-,” she cuts herself off as an ungodly noise amplifies though the sound piece on her phone. It's like the whirl of shredding metal.
“Mrs. Hollander!” A voice calls in panicked relief. “I try turn light on, then sink, it scream at me. Why American sink scream? Is very angry. What do I do?”
It takes her a moment to recognize the lilting Russian voice as Rozanov’s. Then it takes her another moment to comprehend that Ilya Rozanov is calling her, and apparently asking for help. From her. The mother of his rival. She takes a moment to quell her immediate revulsion to speaking to a Boston Raider and reminds herself that this is a young man her son’s age who is on his own for the first time and apparently needs help. Though why he called her is beyond her at the moment.
“Good morning Rozanov,” she says, calmer than she feels at the abrupt loud interruption to her morning. The shredding metal sound was still going in the background of the call.
“Ah, sorry,” he says a little sheepishly, he switches his tone to sound more affable, “Good morning Mrs. Hollander,” then more urgently, “Please help.”
She couldn’t help the soft chuckle at his antics, then focused on problem solving.
“You said the sink is… angry?”
“Yes, very angry. It’s yelling at me and I do not know why. I think it is... possessed by demon. Do I need to hire exorcist?” Rozanov pauses like he is actually considering hanging up on her to call a priest. “Apartment listing did not say haunted.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she says, “I think you just turned on the garbage disposal.”
“Garbage… disposal?” He forms the words, foreign in his mouth, with a confused focus, like he’s trying to find them in his library of English words. “What is this? Is different from garbage can? Garbage truck? What do these have to do with my sink doing death wail?”
Yuna holds back a laugh. Rozanov is funny, but she won’t let him know she thinks that. She composes herself before answering, “It’s just a device in the bottom of your sink that shreds food waste so it can pass through the pipes safely. You probably flipped the switch when trying to turn on the light. Try turning off the switch you flipped last.”
“Okei, I will try.”
She waits a moment before the whirring in the background of the call dissipates and she hears a triumphant shout before Rozanov’s voice comes back over the phone.
“Mama Hollander, you are a godsend,” he cries, “Thank you.”
She feels warmth at his jubilance and a little startled by the nickname. It’s endearing. However, now that the crisis is over, she needs to sate her curiosity over this strange encounter.
“I’m glad to have helped,” she starts, “But why did you reach out to me? Surely your family’s helping you move, isn’t there someone there that could have helped you?”
It’s quiet on the other end of the line, and with the garbage disposal now off, there was no background noise to tell her if the call dropped. She checks the screen and sees it’s still connected.
Rozanov clears his throat, and says in a voice trying for aloof, but like a puck ricocheting off the cross bar, just misses the mark, “Ah, no. My family could not make the trip with me, so they are still back in Russia. But it has been going fine. I hired some movers to help with the larger furniture, but they are all gone now.”
She couldn’t imagine letting her own son move across the world to settle in a new country by himself. It was unthinkable to her, but she didn’t know Rozanov’s situation, or much about Russian culture, so maybe it was fine. Still, he should have someone in the city already.
“What about someone from the Raiders organization? Couldn’t you have reached out to one of the other players or staff?” she suggests.
“I’m sorry if I have inconvenienced you Mrs. Hollander,” he says instead of answering the question, more subdued now, like he was closing himself off. She didn’t think he should sound like that.
“It’s not an inconvenience,” she reassures, “I'm just a bit confused. I couldn’t have been your first choice to call for help.”
“Mhm, maybe not. But I do not know anyone on the team yet, so I did not feel comfortable reaching out to any of them. I have a friend who will be moving to Boston soon, but she is still back in Russia for now. So not much help at the moment.”
Jesus, they really did just ship this boy across the ocean and leave him unsupervised to figure things out on his own. One more thing to curse the Raiders for.
“I see.”
“So, I thought about who else I could call and remembered the card you gave me and you saying it was ok to reach out for any reason, and you are such a good mama for Hollander, I thought you could help. And you did, so thank you.” he seems almost shy as he tacks on, “But if this was crossing a line, I understand and will not do it again Mrs. Hollander.”
All the previous interviews and game tape she has watched of Rozanov hasn’t prepared her for the sweet, respectful boy on the other end of the phone. This is the second time he’s called her a good mother, and she can’t help but wonder what his own mother must be like.
“It’s really no trouble Rozanov,” she finds herself saying, “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Okei,” he says eagerly, and just by his voice she can tell he’s planning on taking full advantage of the offer. She hears movement on the other end of the phone. “It looks like I will be eating soup tonight. The …garbage disposal… ate my fork. Do you know where I can buy another?”
Yuna sat for a moment with the question. Flabbergasted.
“Why do you only have one fork?”
After telling Rozanov he needed to own an entire cutlery set and not just one of each utensil (Jesus, who raised this kid?), and giving him many options for stores that would have good sets to choose from, she felt like he never stopped contacting her. Over the next several weeks, she receives several texts and calls from Rozanov as he settles into life in Boston. Most of the time when his contact flashes across her screen (since she can’t have Ilya Rozanov contacting her, she saves his number as “Menace to Society”) it was with a message asking for advice.
How many sheet sets is normal to own?
Why do Americans always expect a tip for services? My waiter did not do a good job, but he looked so mad when I did not tip? Is bad??
How do I know what bad part of town is? I run through neighborhood and it looks fine, then teammate tells me to avoid it.
How do you unclog a blender?
Is the washer supposed to make this noise? [audio file attached]
She always answers his questions as best she can and gives him thoroughly researched advice about whatever the current crisis is at the moment. But he sends other messages too. Messages she starts to look forward to just as much as when he asks for help.
Look at this cute dog I saw on my walk. Is she not the most precious [photo attached]
Boys invited me out for first party with the team. I am very excited!
My neighbor lady invited me over for tea. Am going to teach her the Russian way to make it.
New coffee shop down street from my apartment. I like cozy atmosphere.
It was just little things from his day, but she found herself wanting to send her own little pieces in return.
Occasionally, they would talk hockey, although she refuses to bring up Shane and how training camp with the Metros is going for him. They mainly keep their talks about other teams and players (she has no idea what his beef with Scott Hunter is- she doesn’t even think they’ve met yet, but the “dinosaur” clearly rubbed him the wrong way at some point) and Yuna finds she enjoys his insight into the game she loves, even if it's usually accompanied by a snarky chirp. She could already tell he would make a reputation for himself on the ice with that mouth of his alone.
He also seems to be operating on the same rules as she is about mentioning the Raiders, until one day she receives a text:
Shh, no secrets but… training camp went well. Cannot wait for season to start. You will finally get to see good hockey.
She laughs at the text but can’t help but agree that with Shane and him in the league now, hockey was about to be elevated to a degree the sport hasn’t seen since the likes of Gretzky.
She decides not to tell Shane about her correspondence with Rozanov. Not because she wants to hide it from him, but maybe she feels a little protective over the boy she was starting to care about. Not that she let Rozanov or the rest of her family know that.
“To think he’s better than you,” she says to Shane, “Fuck him. Right up the butt.”
Privately, she thinks they both will be able to score 50 points this season. She texts Ilya after leaving the restaurant saying just that.
She’s vindicated when they prove her right.
Las Vegas June, 2011
The banquet after the awards show is filled to the brim with a mix of players, management, and the rich sponsors of the MLH. Just Yuna’s kind of crowd. She rubs elbows with the elites of the sport, David by her side, and makes connections that will help her son navigate this side of the sport. For all her son’s talents, this isn’t one that comes naturally to him. She grills scripts into him so he knows how to handle himself when he is required to perform on his own. But while she’s here, she’ll alleviate him of this task and let him bask in his success.
Rookie of the Year. She couldn’t be prouder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lined up at the bar with some older players taking shots. A small smile warms her lips. Let him celebrate. She’s got this covered.
Later in the night, she receives a text from Shane saying he’s done and heading to his room for the night. David also turned in earlier, but she stayed to finish a conversation with the GM for the San Jose Sharks about the pros and cons of going into a playoff run with a young newly rebuilt team vs a team of veteran players who have experience but passed their physical prime. When she finally lets the man go, the room has noticeably emptied as more and more people trickle out to head to bed or continue their nights at more exciting venues. They are in Vegas after all. She heard there was a great view of the Strip all lit up from the rooftop bar. So, in an impromptu move, she decides to see for herself before heading to bed. It is her first time here after all. Though, she’s confident it won’t be her last if Shane’s career goes the way she expects.
The elevator dings and the doors open to the night sky. She steps out and the cooling night air greets her along with the tint of cigarette smoke. She turns in the direction of the scent and sees a familiar silhouette leaning against the wall close to the steps up to the railing, the nub in his hand burnt to the filter.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” she says in leu of greeting.
He jolts at her voice, “Hello, Mrs. Hollander,” then he looks down at the remnants of his bad choices. “This is the smoking area,” he retorts.
“You still shouldn’t be doing it. You’re a professional athlete.”
He shrugs, “Is off season now.”
She gives a disapproving tut as she walks closer leaning up against the wall next to him. The cigarette butt drops from his finger and is smushed under the tip of his shiny dress shoe, extinguishing the smoke. Neither speak for a moment. She tries to find his eyes, but he keeps them downcast. That’s fine, she’s used to handling a young man who avoids eye contact most of the time. Instead, her gaze drifts to the sky as she roots her presence next to him.
“You did incredible this season.” She means it. He did.
“Not good enough, apparently.” It comes out bitter, yet resigned. Like he’s already hashed out this conversation to varying degrees, and is tired of it.
Still, she presses, “The Caulder could have gone to either of you. I don’t think there’s ever been a closer race for it in the history of the sport than there was this year. It almost felt insulting to have Lemaire up there at all, like he had a chance.”
“It went to Hollander.”
“It could have gone to either of you.”
“No, you do not understand. It went to Hollander.”
If she hadn’t spent the past year messaging and receiving messages from this boy, if she only knew him from his interviews and games, then she may have assumed this was arrogance. That he was up here pouting, commiserating the loss. But she has messaged him, and gotten to know him, and right now she knows that this isn’t about losing to Shane, not really. This is him trying to explain a hard emotion in a second language and not finding the words he needs to communicate.
She remembers the first year her father moved their family to Canada. At the ripe old age of 9, without a lick of English on her tongue, just trying to make her way through this strange new land where no one understood her. One day, her father took her hand and brought her to the local grocery store. While he consulted their shopping list, she wandered away to explore an aisle proudly displaying the largest assortment of candy she’d ever seen. When she wandered back to where she left her father, the aisle was empty of any familiar presences. Panicked, she began to cry, shrill peals that echoed through the store. It alerted a store worker to her plight, but when asked what was wrong, she didn’t have the English words to explain to the man that she lost her father. All she could do was repeat over and over, “Chichi, chichi. Watashino chichi,” to the bewildered worker. Luckily, her father was only a row over and the commotion she caused alerted him to her location and he rushed over to claim his distressed child. After that day, she doubled her efforts in learning both English and French. She’s fluent in both now, maybe even more so than her native language in some ways, but even still there are times when she feels that a part of her is untranslatable into her second and third languages.
Rozanov immigrated much later than she did in life, and his English was far beyond hers when she moved, but she understood the struggle he is facing intimately.
“Then help me understand,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Take your time if you need, but explain. Please. I’ll listen.”
“English is hard.”
“I know. It’s not my first language either. That’s why I said take your time.” His shoulder is firm and muscled under the fabric of his tux. She gives it a gentle squeeze, tension melting under her fingers as he leans imperceptibly into the touch. He eyes her warily, parsing whether she means it. She gives him an encouraging nod.
“You are here for Hollander.”
She stays silent and waits for him to continue, not sure where he is going with this.
He takes a deep breath and slides down the wall. She follows suit, kneeling in her dress to stay close to him.
“You are here. You flew in to support him, not knowing if he would win or not. As you say, it was close, could have gone to either of us.” He spins his phone in his hand against his leg. The screen is black, even as he touches the screen. He must have turned it off or it ran out of power.
“It could have gone to either of you,” she insists.
“Yes,” He agrees easily, “But my father does not see it this way.”
“Oh.” In all their times calling and texting over the last year, Rozanov’s never directly brought up his father. Or any of his family members really. She wondered why he reached out to her over and over again for situations that required parental guidance. Always assuming his relationship with his family was tense or distant. Her heart aches at the confirmation.
“He calls me, he would not have called if I won. Winning was expected. Not to be commended. But losing. Losing needs to be reprimanded. He says… he says things to me I do not think you would ever say to your son. I will not repeat them.”
He takes a breath, and Yuna’s blood boils for the young man sitting next to her. For what she sees as absurdity to not be proud of this boy she’s slowly started to think of as a second son. To know his actual parents didn’t support him the way he deserved to be supported.
“And now, I go home in three days, back to his house, a failure in his eyes.”
“You aren’t a failure, Rozanov. You know that, right? Any parent should be proud to call you their son.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. Like he doesn’t believe her.
“And your mother?” She can’t help but find herself asking.
He swallows and shakes his head again. Yuna doesn’t know if that means his mother agrees with his father or something else, but doesn’t push. It’s clearly a tough subject. One he doesn’t want to dive into right now.
They sit in silence, noise from the street below muffled by how high up they are. Yet rising to meet their ears. His face is stone. Locking everything he’s feeling behind his emotionless mask. She wonders when the last time he let himself cry is. Her hand is still resting on his shoulder. She brings in to rub across his shoulders. The way she does for Shane when he’s overwhelmed.
“Well,” she says, “I am proud of you.” She feels his breath shutter in his ribcage under her ministrations, but no tears fall. “You played an amazing season. And beyond that you’re a good man. I am here for you. If or when you need me.”
His head snaps over to look at her, a glassy quality to his brilliant blue eyes. Disbelief and awe are etched into his face, finally breaking through the mask he’s held for so long.
Gratitude fills his voice as he whispers, “Thank you, Mama Hollander.”
“Yuna,” she corrects.
“Thank you, Mama Yuna.”
Her heart warms.
“You’re welcome, Ilya.”