Chapter Text
-ILYA-
Montreal doesn’t have time to waste. Always crowded offices, cars rushing by at full speed, and parents hurrying to get their kids to school.
That’s how Ilya Rozanov would have described Montreal, if only he had known English a little better.
If only his mind had been as fast as he was on the ice, Ilya would never have stopped talking about that city.
He would have described how the smell of coffee woke him up without hurry, how a salted croissant was one of the best things he had ever tasted in a café.
He would have talked about how the faint rays of sun, in that cold air, warmed his lips as if they wanted to kiss him.
Ilya wasn’t cold; after all, Russia was a freezer in comparison. But the fresh air was biting, and his lighter wasn’t cooperating in lighting his Marlboro.
He probably didn’t even want it, but the thought of smoking was the only thing that gave him a bit of pleasure.
When the lighter finally decided to cooperate, a voice brought him back to the civilized world.
“Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander,” said a boy, extending his hand. “I wanted to introduce myself.”
Ilya’s thoughts stopped instantly: that was Shane fucking Hollander.
Ilya knew exactly who he was, fuck if he did. He and Rozanov were the two names on everyone’s lips, and the tension was suffocating both of them.
Shane’s face was radiant. A small but warm smile curved his face and lifted his big brown eyes. His cheekbones were slightly pink from the cold, and a sea of freckles made him fucking attractive.
Ilya studied him carefully, as if he had to memorize him, until he remembered he still hadn’t shaken the hand that had been offered to him.
After that small, formal contact, Shane tried timidly to continue the conversation, then said goodbye with a second handshake.
Ilya would have liked to talk to Hollander. He loved teasing the already existing tension between them, but at the time his mind struggled to translate from Russian to English.
-SHANE-
Shane left the arena with his mother Yuna, who kept talking, or maybe she had stopped: he wasn’t listening, so he didn’t really care.
They had gone to watch Rozanov’s team practice, or at least that’s what they had said out loud. Both of them were there to observe and study him. Shane would face him on the ice in a few days.
He had seen games on TV, but in person he was terrifying. Ilya moved with fury and everything about him radiated anger: he devoured anyone who dared to get in his way.
The scariest part was how damn good he was: he wasn’t in a hurry to end the game, instead he seemed to enjoy the sweat and muscle strain without making a single mistake.
He was a god. Not only because of the way he played, but because he was attractive.
The sweaty blond curls on his forehead, once the helmet came off at the end of practice, fell onto his dark eyebrows. The contrast with his blue-green eyes was breathtaking. His nose, like those of Greek statues, was the perfect bridge to his pink lips that twisted into a mischievous, cocky smile.
Ilya was attractive. That was a fact. Everyone could sense the attraction he radiated, but no one would ever dare speak to him outside of hockey.
“Sweetheart, are you listening to me?” Yuna said, placing her hand on her son’s shoulder and pulling him back.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought,” he replied, running his hands over his face to hide the tension.
“Rozanov is nothing compared to you. He’s good, of course, but you are Shane Hollander,” she said, meeting his eyes. “You’ll beat him. And even if you don’t, we are proud of you, okay?”
“Thanks, mom,” he said, smiling, grateful deep down to have parents like his.
“You and dad go ahead, I just need some air.”
“Alright, wrap up and don’t get cold,” Yuna said, closing his jacket.
“Mom, I’m not a child,” Shane tried to protest.
“You’ll always be my little boy.”
They hugged, and then Shane took the stairs up to the roof. It had become a sort of ritual to calm himself, at least when it came to hockey.
His father had taken him to the roof of his old school when, at 10 years old, he lost his first game. Shane was crying, thinking he had disappointed his whole family, so David showed him the city and said:
“You see? You didn’t ruin anything. You’re not responsible for everything.”
From that moment on, he kept going up to the roof to remind himself not to be afraid of failure, even though he still trembled at the thought of disappointing his team and his family.
He opened the door and there, right next to it, was Ilya Rozanov trying to light a cigarette.
In that moment Shane’s legs moved on their own and, before anxiety could swallow him, his mouth said:
“Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself.”
Shane heard his own name echo in his head louder than it should have. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he had actually said it or just imagined it.
He looked down at the hand he had just extended.
Ilya Rozanov was shaking it.
His hand was cold. Not completely, not like metal or ice, but enough to make him realize it was real. Too real.
Shane swallowed. He had prepared a thousand scenarios in his head, but none of them included this. Ilya this close. Ilya actually looking at him, not through a screen or from across the ice.
His mind went blank for half a second.
“Uh,” he started, then stopped immediately.
‘Brilliant, Hollander.’
He cleared his throat, trying to regain something like his usual calm.
“Hi,” he added finally, as if he hadn’t just said his name in the most embarrassing way possible.
He realized too late that the handshake had lasted a second too long. He pulled away almost abruptly, as if burned.
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Alive. Shane couldn’t figure out where to look. Ilya’s eyes made him uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with fear, and that disturbed him even more.
“I watched your practice,” Shane said, too quickly.
He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself.
“You’re a really good player,” he added, as if it were some useful or intelligent revelation.
For a moment he feared he had said too much. Or too little. Or both.
Ilya didn’t answer right away.
And that delay, that half-second pause, made Shane feel even more exposed, as if he were occupying a space that didn’t belong to him.
Ilya gave him a faint smile, one of those that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
With his thick accent he said: “You shouldn’t be so nice, considering we’re going to beat you.”
Shane immediately felt the air shift between them. It wasn’t just a sentence: it was a challenge thrown without raising a voice.
For a moment he stayed still.
Then, almost without thinking, he replied: “That’s not going to happen.”
A short laugh escaped him, more nervous than amused.
Ilya’s smile didn’t disappear. If anything, it only became sharper, as if that answer had pleased him more than expected.
Shane swallowed, realizing he had said too much and too little at the same time.
He stepped back, then another step, as if his body had decided on its own.
“Then… see you on the ice,” he added more quietly.
For a second he hesitated, then shook his hand again, this time quickly, almost to end the moment before it became unmanageable.
Then he turned away.
And as he walked down the stairs, he realized his heart was still beating too fast for a simple introduction.