Chapter Text
OCTOBER 2014
Ilya hated their new enforcer. He’d been annoyed when Price had been traded - he was unusual, sure, but he’d been a good enforcer, and hadn’t pissed Ilya off the entire season. Everyone managed to piss Ilya off at some point, but Price had been harmless. And they’d won the fucking Cup with him, for fucks sake.
Their new guy - Isaak Gusev - pissed Ilya off every single day. They were only at the start of the new season, and already Ilya was gritting his teeth. He liked everyone else on his team; hell, the Bears were more family than his actual family, at this point, but Gusev was not part of that. He thought he was so fucking funny, and smart, and wouldn’t leave Ilya the fuck alone.
It was worse that he was Russian, so he seemed to assume it meant he and Ilya would be best friends. He was constantly making sly comments to Ilya, in the language only they understood. About Coach, about other players, even about their own fucking teammates.
But Ilya ignored, and simply didn’t engage. If other people wanted to be dicks, that was none of his business. Maybe he should have said something sooner, put a stop to it all, and none of this would have happened. But he didn’t.
It came to a head after their first game against Montreal of the season. Boston had been defeated, at home as well, and the mood was sour as they all trudged back into the locker room. Ilya was in an especially bad mood - Hollander had won every single face off, and he knew social media would be ablaze talking about it.
Probably saying his Cup win was a fluke. That he was too young to Captain a team. That Hollander was the better Captain. Truthfully, Ilya wanted nothing more than to get home, wait for Hollander to arrive and use the man to fuck his frustrations out.
“Don’t worry, Roz,” Gusev said to him in Russian, as they were getting changed. “We’ll get them next time.”
Ilya hummed, not engaging. It didn’t stop Gusev.
“Hollander is weak American bitch, would not last a second in KHL.”
“Maybe.” Ilya was so close to getting out of there.
“Chink like that would leave ice on stretchers.”
Ilya froze for a second, then finished pulling on his sweater. “Do not use words like that,” he said shortly.
“Oh, come on.” Gusev grinned, like it was funny. “A chink is still a chink, even if he’s mixed breed.”
Ilya saw red. He punched Gusev, straight in the nose. Then he kept punching him, even when Gusev stopped grinning. He kept punching, even when Gusev was on the floor. He didn’t stop until Marlow and Connors had dragged him off, and Ilya’s knuckles were bright red and bruised, and there was blood all over.
~~
“Rozanov, what the fuck?!”
Coach had been yelling at him for the past fifteen minutes. Ilya sat in the room and took it. He was good at being yelled at - he kept his eyes downcast, his mouth shut, and nodded contritely.
“Management is pissed! The journalists are all up my ass! Gusev has a broken jaw and won’t be able to play for weeks! What the fuck happened?!!”
Ilya shrugged. “We had fight,” he said.
“Oh, no no no.” Coach shook his head. “This wasn’t a fight. This was assault. Assault, Rozanov! Of one employee to another! And on company property! Do you even know the type of shit Legal has been screaming at me the past twenty four hours?”
“Sorry, Coach.”
Coach LeClaire finally sat down. He didn’t look any less pissed. “This is not a “sorry” sort of situation, Rozanov,” he growled. “You better explain yourself, and fast, or I’m going to have to trade you.”
Ilya’s eyes widened, and he swallowed. “Do not trade me,” he said stiffly. “It will not happen again, I promise. I will- will take suspension or something. Pay fine.”
“Ilya, right now you are a danger to everyone the Bears employ. I need you to tell me what happened.”
Ilya almost did. Really, almost. But he could not do that to Hollander. He knew, if he told Coach, then HR and Legal and all of management would know, which means the media would know, and it would be everywhere. And Hollander would hate that. He would hate everyone talking about his ethnicity, he would hate being at the centre of a scandal where another player called him a slur, he would hate that Ilya had to be the one to stand up for him.
He would hate all of it, Ilya knew. He knew how hard Hollander worked to be seen as a hockey player and nothing else, and- God, they would make Hollander comment on it, and he would hate that even more. Ilya couldn’t do that to him, especially when this was all Ilya’s fault, because Ilya couldn’t control his own fucking emotions. He couldn’t drag Hollander into this.
“Sorry, Coach,” he said. “I cannot say.”
“Rozanov. That’s not good enough.”
“I know.”
Coach stared at him. “I’m not going to be able to keep you here.”
“I know.” Ilya swallowed. “I really am sorry.”
Coach sighed. He didn’t seem angry anymore, just disappointed. “Go pack your shit.”
Ilya left.
~~
Ilya had thought he would get traded to Buffalo, maybe. Or Dallas, they had money left and their centre was shit. He had not expected to get traded to Montreal. He had argued with his agent when she told him - he didn’t want to leave America, and going to play for Montreal felt like the biggest betrayal to Boston possible.
Ilya loved Boston. He loved the city, he loved the people, he loved his team. It had been home since he was eighteen. He didn’t want to go and play for their sworn enemy. But it didn’t matter how much he yelled at his agent - the trade had been made, and Montreal had taken him.
Marlow came to help him pack some of his shit. He was really only taking what he absolutely needed - clothes, sheets, the bare minimum of pots and pans. He was leaving his Boston apartment as close to normal as possible, because he was not ready to say goodbye yet.
He and Marlow loaded the suitcases into the only four-wheel drive Ilya owned, a black Range Rover. He stared longingly at the sports cars he was leaving in the garage.
“You will check on place every month or so?” Ilya asked, again.
“Sure, man,” Marlow replied.
“Thanks.”
“Eh, don’t thank me yet. Now I have keys, I’m gonna have all the boys over as soon as you leave. We’re going to absolutely destroy the place.”
Ilya laughed despite himself. He shut the garage door and walked round to the driver’s side of the Range Rover. “I will bill you for all damage,” he said.
Marlow grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You need anything else?”
“No. Thank you for help.”
“S’okay.” Marlow’s grin faded. “You really can’t tell me why you let yourself get traded, Roz?”
“No.”
“...Okay.” Marlow exhaled loudly. “I’m gonna miss you man. Team won’t be the same without you.”
“You will be good Captain,” Ilya assured him.
“Not as good as you.”
“No one is as good as me.” The joke fell flat, and Ilya felt heavy. “I will miss you too,” he said. “We will… we will keep in touch, yes?”
“Yeah, course.” Marlow smiled grimly, and Ilya nodded.
“Okay… I should, ah, get going. Is long drive.”
“Yeah, alright.”
Ilya got into the car, starting the engine, and Marlow slapped the hood. “See you around,” he said, and Ilya waved, driving off.
~~
He arrived at the lodge his agent had booked for him last-minute. It was a shitty sort of long-term motel set-up, because Ilya needed his space, and didn’t want to live in a hotel where he had cleaners knocking every day until he found an apartment. This gave him a little room with a bed, an armchair and a tiny kitchenette, with a hob and a microwave and tiny fridge, along with a cramped bathroom with a shower.
It was shit, but he had his privacy, and no one would bother him, so he would take it. He checked in, and dragged his suitcases in from the car, and looked around the room. He didn’t really know what to do, he realised. It was early in the evening on Saturday, and he wasn’t expected at the rink until Monday morning.
He scrolled his phone for a while, but all his feeds were just reactions to his trade, and he didn’t like seeing the Boston fans upset with him. So he googled where the nearest supermarket was instead, and drove there to buy himself food for the next couple of days. When he got back, he ate his pot noodle on the armchair, and then lay on his bed. He watched Jeopardy reruns until two in the morning, even though he hated American quiz shows because he didn’t know any of the answers to their questions. They just made him feel stupid, but maybe he wanted to feel stupid that night. More stupid than he felt already.
He checked his phone one last time before he went to sleep. Because he was feeling particularly sorry for himself, he opened the text thread from Jane. The last message was still the one that had been sent over a week ago now, from the night Montreal came to Boston.
Jane: am i still seeing you tonight or are you too much of a sore loser?
Ilya had never replied, because he had been too busy beating Gusev into a pulp, and then getting screamed at. He’d never got to see Hollander that night, which meant the last time Ilya had been with him had been that night in Vegas.
Almost six months, by now. It felt longer.
Hollander hadn’t texted him again since, even though he certainly saw the news about what Ilya had done, and certainly certainly knew where Ilya had been traded to. But whatever Hollander’s thoughts were about it all, he hadn’t chosen to share them with Ilya.
Ilya considered sending a message, but decided against it. What would he even say? He groaned, switching his phone off and letting the darkness of the room envelop him.