Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov met Shane Hollander by tripping on him in a stairwell.
It was the Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics. Ilya was still in the Athlete’s Village, burning out after Russia’s horrific, humiliating loss and knockout to Latvia, trying to avoid his teammates, the media, and any communication from his father. He had been trying to eat lunch in the communal hall when bile had risen in his throat and everyone around him had become just too much.
It was a utility stairwell. It was supposed to be empty.
Instead, Ilya had burst through the door, crashed into someone sitting on the top step, and half-caught himself on the railing.
He had help. There was the sound of items hitting the floor before firm arms wrapped around his legs, preventing him from somersaulting over his saviour.
As Ilya righted himself, the first thing he noticed about the other man was the cute freckles splattered across his face.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
He also had gorgeous eyes. “Didn’t expect someone to be sitting on stairs.”
Those eyes tightened slightly as the man’s face closed up. “It’s quiet in here and I needed to think.”
This was the most normal conversation Ilya had had in the last forty-eight hours. He sat down beside the man, reaching forward and grabbing a notebook and pen from where they had fallen on the stairs. “Sorry for interrupting your thinking.”
Instead of handing the notebook back, Ilya looked at the page it had fallen open on. The handwriting was neat. Ilya’s English was improving, but the notes practically felt like a third, unknown language to him as he skimmed the page.
Draw #5 Wed. Feb. 12 7PM Sheet C
R1 - over rotates? - missed 3, 5, 6
Y3 - slow? - check MacTavish’s draws
R4 - digs in early on guards - 2, 3, 4, 7
R7 - MONEY - shot 100
R1 - Mitch bitched about it after game
Y3 - naturally slow, normal rotation
“What is this code? What are you, CIA agent?”
“First of all, I’m Canadian.” He pushed his shoulder forward, highlighting the red maple leaf on his white sherpa. “Second, why would I admit to that when you could just hand me over to the KGB then?”
“What if I am Ukrainian?” Ilya was in everyday wear, not wanting the pressure that would come with wearing Russian colours after the loss.
“Yes, the famous Ukrainian first-overall draft pick Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya should have assumed that a Canadian would know who he was. “I am sure you are happy to not see us in final.”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to be a dick and say that to your face. But also, a Canada-Russia final would have been epic. It is a classic match up.” He reached to take the notebook back. “I don’t have time to worry about hockey right now anyways. I’m prepping for my team’s final.”
The acknowledgement of Team Russia’s failure had been so blunt but non-judgemental that it lowered Ilya’s guard without him even realizing. “And what does Mr. Pretty Boy play?”
There was no raw anger, no awkward dismissal, just a quick blush rushing up into the Canadian’s cheeks. Interesting. “Curling.” He held out a stiff hand. “Shane Hollander, Team Jacobson’s fifth man.”
Ilya had to angle his body for the handshake. He let their knees lightly bump together and then held his there against Shane’s. There was a sharp inhale from Shane. “What is fifth man?”
There was either a tremble or a hesitation in Shane’s hand as the handshake ended; Ilya couldn’t tell which one it was, but Shane didn’t move his knee away. “The alternate. I’m here for if someone gets hurt or really sick and can’t play.”
“What is there to prepare then if you are not going to play?”
Shane's shoulders stiffened defensively. “Notes. Strategy.”
“What notes though? Not like you will play a guy who always shoots blocker top.”
That got Ilya a scoff. “You mean over the blocker. Do you genuinely want to know?”
Ilya glanced to the side, trying to parse the word “genuinely.” He hoped he answered correctly. “Da.”
The slightest of smirks appeared on Shane’s face. He pointed at this notebook. “Draw means a specific game time since multiple games play at once. Sheet’s the piece of ice you’re on. R1 is red rock one. Y3 is yellow rock three. All rocks stay on their specific sheets during the round robin and it’s my job to take notes on how each rock appears to perform.”
“Sounds like a lot of work for rocks.” Ilya couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.
Shane scowled. “Hockey players have it easy. You use the same stick every game.”
“And you use same…” Ilya made a sweeping motion with his hands, “broom?”
“Broom. And that is true, but what matters here is how you get consistency with every shot you take. Every game, you know your stick has the length and flex that you like. And your preferred brand of tape. Each curling stone is like a different brand of stick you have to learn on the fly.”
“Does that actually matter?”
“At this level, of course! It’s not like we’re some Sunday fun league.”
So you play on…” Ilya leaned into Shane to read, “Sheet C tomorrow?”
“No, B.”
“Then why-”
“For the final, the guys get to pick the rocks they want to play with from any sheet. I’m going over my notes so I can tell them which ones suck ass and should be avoided.”
There was an easy joke about ass play to be made, but Ilya wondered if that would be coming on too strong. “So you are fancy stats boy.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m a junior world champion just like you. And unlike you, I have two.” His mouth parted in hesitation, and then he spat the rest out. “And all of my analysis this tournament has helped my team get to the final.”
Ilya glared. “A champion that’s fine not to play?”
Shane shrugged. “I hope to have a team ready to represent Canada at the next Winter Olympics. I’m only here this time because Rob’s usual fifth broke his ankle when his daughter’s sled rammed into him a month ago. I’m here cause I was good enough to bring even if we’ve all never played together in a real game before.”
Ilya should have been angry or at least annoyed at Shane’s tone. Instead, he was watching the expression on Shane’s face, noting how it had opened back up again, becoming more animated as he talked about his sport and his accomplishments.
Ilya was mentally and emotionally exhausted. His mind flew to wondering how that cute face would look flushed with pleasure beneath him or with that enticing mouth wrapped around his cock. Dangerous thinking on the average day, even more so when he was back here in Russia.
He spent too long staring at Hollander’s lips. “So, if I come watch Mr. Pretty Boy’s final, will you explain your dumb sport to me?”
“Fuck no. I’m still gonna be in a game, asshole, even if you don’t understand what I’m doing. I don’t have time to pay attention to you.”
“Do you have time to pay attention after my next game in Canada?” Ilya’s brain caught up to his mouth and he desperately hoped his fear didn’t show on his face. It was such a risk to be so forward while he was in Russia.
“Who said I live in a city with an NHL team? I could be from Saskatchewan for all you know.”
“I hope not. I may be Russian but that place was too much frozen… nothing even for me.”
That got Ilya another cute little scoff. “Frozen wasteland?”
“Da, that.”
Shane’s eyes flicked from Ilya’s face, down to his hands, and then back again. Ilya waited.
“I live in Ottawa.”
“See? Perfect. Is my third game back. Give your phone.”
Shane ran a shaky hand through his hair, but then dug around in his pockets, handing over an iPhone.
Ilya was tempted to put himself in as nothing but eggplant emojis, but being home quickly had him thinking better of it. He added his number.
“Lily?” Shane’s reply had both a little disbelief and amusement in it.
“Here is not a good place to be…”
“Well, not to mention your job.”
“Is it better, in your sport?”
Shane managed to hold eye contact better when talking about curling. “It depends on who you play with. Some of the older guys are assholes but I feel like most people are chill? Like, we have the average number of homophobes. Though I don’t advertise that part of myself much. I deal enough with people being racist.”
While humming in reply, Ilya pulled out his own phone. “Text me.”
After a moment, a bland “This is Shane.” text appeared on Ilya’s screen. He added Hollander in as a contact. As he was getting up, Ilya bumped his shoulder into Shane, smirking down at the other man. “Well, Jane, we will work something out after Olympics, da?”
Ilya hesitated long enough to watch the other man nod before leaving.
Shane continued to sit in the stairwell after Ilya Rozanov’s departure. Did he have time to pay attention? He already had. He was a curler, but he was also a Canadian who didn’t live underneath a rock. Just because he had followed in his dad’s stead and taken up curling instead of hockey like his mom wanted, didn’t mean he wasn’t constantly paying attention to the NHL. (And internally dying as his hometown team was shit. He cheered for the Voyageurs too alongside his mother, but the horrendous Centaurs were always first and foremost in his heart.)
Not to mention the rivalry between Rozanov and Tarasov lived rent free in his mother’s head. Shane heard about it endlessly, since every Montreal-Boston game was the Russian Heavyweight Tilt Part: however many times Rozanov and Tarasov had faced off against each other in the league so far. The league did everything it could to milk the two Russians since they went as the first and second picks in their draft year.
He sighed, turning back to the match data he had been going over before Rozanov had tumbled into him. It was at least worthwhile to pay attention to Russian hockey superstars, even if they had crashed out spectacularly from the Olympics. That team had at least been contenders, unlike their curling counterparts who were in the tournament just to get slaughtered.
Though, despite being on the same team, it had looked like Rozanov and Tarasov had wanted to slaughter each other as they played. The crash out was probably inevitable when the captain and one of the alternates were so plainly at each other’s throats.
Shane swiped his hand through his hair again. Fuck, he needed to get recentered. This wasn’t the time to get distracted by a hot hockey player who was apparently into fucking men discretely. Odds were, Rozanov wouldn’t even bother to reach out to him anyways. The guy was probably looking for thrills after such a horrendous loss, but wouldn’t take the risk once he settled back into his regular season play.
Settling into a quick breathing exercise to once again focus on his analysis, Shane forced himself to ignore the small part of him hoping that Rozanov would message him later in the month.