Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was 4 years old when he first saw his father slap his mother across the face.
He was 8 years old when he stepped in between his parents for the first time, sobbing and begging his dad not to hurt his mother. He received a slap of his own in retribution.
He was 10 years old when he identified the lack of light in her eyes, a spark no longer there that had long since faded.
He was 12 years old when he found his mother, cold and lifeless, resting in her favorite chair that overlooked the tree they had planted together when he was 3 and still wobbly on his chubby legs. He screamed and cried until his voice was raw and he was spitting up blood from the force of his wails.
He was 14 years old when he first found release and comfort between another person’s legs, a high he would chase time and time again just to feel any connection to another human.
He was 15 years old when he recognized the same detached look he had seen in his mother in another’s face—his teammate Dima. He tried warning his coaches that something was wrong, but was only met with apathetic platitudes.
He was 16 years old when Dima left his life in a similar manner to Irina. He vowed on that day to never let another person pass him by with those eyes without talking to them, trying to help in any way he could.
He was 17 years old when he watched a breathtakingly beautiful young man get drafted to the Montreal Metros. He had seen this Hollander play before, tracking his impressive career through international junior cups. Surrounded by friends and teammates, crammed together to watch the draft, his one thought was, “How have I never seen his freckles before?”
He was 18 years old when he realized he didn’t care if it was a man or a woman he seduced, anyone warm and willing would make him happy enough.
He was 19 years old when he was promoted to Assistant Captain for the Ottawa Centaurs.
He was 21 years old when he became Captain.
He was 22 years old when he came out to his team as bisexual. He was met with casual, sincere support and a round of “fucking called it” from the veterans.
He was 23 years old when he adopted an abandoned, sweet little dog he named Anya, giving him some semblance of purpose he had been seeking.
He was 25 years old when he skated up to face Shane Hollander, yet again. Some inane, sarcastic joke died on his tongue when they made eye contact. He nearly gasped when he saw his mother’s empty, morose eyes staring back, right through him.
He was 25 years old when he decided he would do whatever necessary to help the broken man in front him.
He was 25 years old when he changed the trajectory of his life for the better.
~
Shane Hollander was a bit of an enigma to Ilya. He was the best player in the league, something the Russian would only admit under threat of bodily harm, but he had no social life. He barely had what Ilya would call “a life” at all, if his fellow Metros were to be believed. He came across as utterly focused on his craft, aloof to human connections.
Yet, the man had a sense of humor that was intriguing and unfitting of his reputation. Ilya was known for his ruthless wit on the ice, getting in his opponent’s heads with chirps that they would think about for days after the game, throwing them off balance. He refused to cross the line of anything resembling bigotry. While he would never make fun of someone’s race, disability, personal loss, he never let anyone skirt by without a chirp. He was an equal opportunity offender, and proud of it. Shane was the one player he had come across who never seemed put-off by the chirping, and he couldn’t figure out why. If anything, more often than not, his barbs would be met with a breathy laugh and crinkled eyes. It was significantly disarming to Ilya, who would struggle to think of any kind of insult as Shane’s freckles danced above his smile before racing down the rink at the speed of light. He was simply too kind, too talented, for Ilya to have any decent comedic material. But, he did his best. He’d do anything to earn one of those smiles, but he tried not to think about that fact too hard.
It wasn’t until All-Stars 2017 came around that Ilya realized the Metros were full of shit. Shane Hollander was a delight. Boring? Absolutely. But a sweetheart? Undoubtedly.
He had approached Ilya at the hotel bar with his thumbs in his pockets, looking like a nervous schoolboy. They would be playing on the same line for the first time, and Shane wanted to get some players together for “team bonding”. Ilya couldn’t get out the words “yes, yes, very down, when and where?” fast enough. If anything, he was hoping to get some answers about just who exactly Hollander was, maybe catch a fracture in the perfect Golden Boy persona the NHL liked to tout.
Their group was smaller than he expected, consisting of himself, Carter Vaughn, Scott Hunter, and his own teammate, Zane Boodman. It was a small crew and Ilya couldn’t help but notice it was only the guys on the team who weren’t rowdy—a little quieter, a little kinder. And himself. He didn’t exactly fit the mold of the other 4, but he was honored to be considered safe enough to hang out with by their Captain. All in all, Ilya wasn’t surprised by Shane’s choices, nor by the low-key pub they went to.
It wasn’t loud enough to where they had to shout to hear one another, neither was it packed enough to be piled against one another. Of course Shane picked this place, he thought. They spent the night drinking beers, telling wild hockey stories, shooting darts, and ultimately having a good time. Ilya kept most of his focus on Shane. Watching, observing. Hollander didn’t talk as much as the other men did, but that seemed to suit him just fine. He nursed 2 beers over the night and had a flush to show for it. It was the most relaxed Ilya had ever seen him, but he was still obviously anxious. Ilya just couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe that’s just who Shane was. That thought made him all the more intrigued.
Shane had just opened his third drink when he caught sight of his watch and cursed.
“Fuck, I really gotta turn in, guys. We have practice at the crack of dawn. I’d recommend you guys head back soon, but I know better than to try to enforce anything.”
He had a sheepish grin as the others called him a square, but it was clear he wasn’t changing his mind.
Carter, who had drunk significantly more and had to be pulled away from endangering the masses with his dart throwing, slurred out, “But what about your drink Hollander? Wan’ me to finish it?”
“Absolutely not, Vaughny.”
“Fiiiine. If you don’t chug it, though, I’m telling the whole team tomorrow.” Carter’s playful eyes were sparkling with the challenge he threw out.
Hunter chided, “Don’t listen to him, Shane. If you don’t want to drink it, don’t.”
Shane’s lips quirked up as he shrugged and downed the beer in one go. Ilya’s jaw dropped as Carter let out a primal cheer. Bood was whooping and clapping Shane on the back, who looked considerably more dazed than he did a minute ago.
Ilya was under the distinct impression this was not a common occurrence for the Montrealer. Secretly wanting some time alone with Shane, Ilya offered to walk him back to the hotel, claiming to be tired himself.
They were shoulder to shoulder, brushing skin with every other step.
“D’you think that went well, Ilya? I tried to be fun, for once. I hope everyone had some fun.”
Shane was wistfully stumbling over his words, face turned towards the moon like a gardenia.
Ilya was enamored with his earnestness. He knew so many fellow players that would scoff at the night they shared, only finding excitement in thumping clubs and writhing bodies. Tonight had been so very Shane. It was perfect.
“It was very fun, Hollander. Do not worry, we all had good time.”
Shane looked up at him, eyes sparkling, smile blooming and bright. Ilya’s heart might’ve skipped a beat, but he convinced himself it was heartburn from the shitty beers he had been indulging in.
“Really? I was worried it wouldn’t really be your speed, but I’ve been wanting to get to know some players better. You, especially, really. I dunno if you know this, but I always look forward to our Ottawa matches. I don’t really feel challenged by any other individual in the league besides you.”
Coming from anyone else, that statement would’ve been pure ego and self-flattery. Coming from Shane, Ilya knew it was just a fact. They were the best and there was no reason to deny it when it was just the two of them, away from microphones and screaming masses.
“Da, I feel the same. Getting to play together will be fucking cakewalk. The other team does not stand a chance.” He took a risk and winked at Shane who just smiled and blushed.
“Would I sound like an asshole if I agreed?”
Ilya just laughed as they approached their hotel. They got to their floor and exchanged numbers, Shane’s drunken hands accidentally typed in “Lily”, making them each dissolve into giggles. Ilya instantly put Shane’s contact as Jane, making them wheeze even louder.
“Mm, did you expect to pick up such a pretty girl as Lily tonight, Hollander?”
Shane was still wiping tears from his eyes as he fumbled with his room key, dropping it twice. He was such a lightweight, Ilya almost worried about leaving him alone for the night.
“Hnnnng, no pretty girls for me, no sir. Nooope. Not me. Never been—fuck, just get in there—never been one for a pretty girl. Can’t find a pretty boy, though. Can’t even…” His drunken mumbling trailed off, utterly focused on trying to get the keycard in the designated slot.
Ilya froze. Well, that explained a few things. Gossip blogs and fan sites never shied away from pointing out how Shane had never been caught with a girl, never even had a public partner. He hadn’t put much stock into the rumors, assuming he was just as much of a hockey robot as he seemed to be.
He didn’t think Shane comprehended what he just confessed, much less that he would remember it by morning. For once, Ilya Rozanov was at a complete loss for words.
“A-HA!” Shane triumphantly swung the door open and smiled crookedly back at Ilya. “Told ya I’d get it!” He, in fact, had not told Ilya any such thing, but he let it slide.
“Well done, Hollander. Get some rest, okie?”
“Okie!” Shane imitated his accent, adding a little more flourish which made them each chuckle, softening Ilya’s anxiety over the confession he was never meant to have heard. Shane rushed forward, giving him a brief, crushing hug, eliciting a loud “OOF” from Ilya, before sauntering back to his room, crowing over his shoulder, “G’night Rose-noff!”
Yeah, the Metros were full of shit.
~
Ottawa Centaurs vs Montreal Metros, First Period, March 3rd
His eyes. Dull, blank, not a hint of anything beyond instinctual concentration. Where was the twinkling gardenia, bathing in the moonlight?
Ilya crouched for the puck drop, eyebrows scrunched in concern.
“Shane—?”
Hollander won the face-off and took off like a rocket. Something was wrong with the Metros tonight. They avoided their star center like the plague. They were only saved by Shane playing like a demon, scoring 2 goals before the first period even ended. Regardless, he was far from being defended and supported on the ice. Ilya tracked everything. The second and third line shifts had full support from the d-men, passes finding each other, communicating what was needed. Shane was practically abandoned out there. If he wasn’t Shane Fucking Hollander, he would’ve been made to look like a joke, a fool, alone and floundering.
The Centaurs made their way through the tunnel, panting and downing water through their helmets. Ilya couldn’t contain himself once they got situated in the locker room.
“What is happening out there? They act like Hollander is diseased.”
Wyatt Hayes responded, “Seriously, I can’t figure it out. Motherfucker got 2 goals on me already and he’s got no one helping him out. It’d almost be sad if he wasn’t demolishing us.”
“Whatever they think they’re doing, exploit it. Hollander is defenseless, so we target him and get that puck every time. Their d-men are hanging back—let them. I can’t tell you what they’re thinking but if they’re gonna make such an obvious mistake, we’ll use it.” Coach Wiebe looked like he didn’t enjoy his own game plan, but he knew it would be necessary if they wanted a win.
The room devolved into theories and strategies as Ilya played back every shift Hollander had been on in his mind. Why on earth would they leave their best player, the best player in the entire fucking league, out to dry?
Fuck it. He’d ask Shane. They were both straight-forward people, blunt in their own peculiar ways. Ilya figured he might as well go to the source to get any kind of answer.
~
Ottawa Centaurs vs Montreal Metros, Second Period, March 3rd
Ilya casually skated up to the blue line, calling out to the other center before the puck drop was set to happen.
“Hollander.”
“Rozanov.”
“What the fuck are your defensemen doing? They’re avoiding you like the fucking plague and letting you get run over like squirrel on the street. I’d be tempted to tell my men not to check you so hard if you weren’t kicking our asses.”
They made eye contact, and for the first time that night, Ilya finally saw a Shane he recognized looking back. He was being assessed. Brown eyes flooded with emotion finally, a tragic mixture of anger, uncertainty, fear, with just a hint of longing tucked in there. Ultimately, resolve won over any other emotion. Shane took a deep breath as they skated to the face-off circle. He spoke quietly, his words meant for only one person.
“Well. I came out to the team as gay a few weeks ago. Apparently they decided they’d rather spend their time calling me a ‘geisha whore’ and standing around than doing their fucking jobs.”
His voice was low, but steely. Jagged with hurt and betrayal. Ilya’s stomach dropped. His chest tightened, his vision blurred. How could they…? He could feel himself breathing hard and fast, anger coursing through his lungs. He thought of All-Stars. The crinkled eyes. The gardenia. Someone would pay for this. Many people would pay for this, if he had something to say about it.
He could barely growl out the word, “What?”
Shane looked lost, trying to decipher how Ilya felt. That simply would not do.
“Yeah, it’s whatever, man. Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“
“No. You don’t apologize. Motherfuckers.” Ilya saw red, but did his best to set his rage aside in order to comfort someone he knew needed it. He needed to show Shane that there was a place for him in the league, somewhere where he could be himself, be supported, be protected, be…cared for. He made up his mind, instantly. He threw on his most sincere expression.
“That is bullshit Hollander, sorry. Come to Green Tapestry after the game, I will make sure my team will be there. We’ll buy you proper drink and treat you like real fucking human, hm?”
Shane’s cheeks pinked like a sunrise shining beneath his freckles. He gave Ilya a shy smile and nod before the puck dropped.
Ilya won the face-off, desperate to get out of sight before anyone could see a similar blush on his own cheeks.
~
“Those motherFUCKERS!” Ilya ripped his helmet off and threw it with all of his strength against the back of his locker. He noticed Luca Haas flinching at his outburst considerably. Feeling guilty, he tried to apologize, but his voice wouldn’t catch up with his new intention, causing him to roar out “SORRY,” in the same tone. Luca nodded, looking confused and slightly terrified.
Boodman patted his shoulder, “I know, Cap. Don’t worry, we’ll catch them. Hollander is just playing like a madman tonight.”
The team echoed similar sentiments that washed over Ilya, meaningless. He had his back turned still, and said calmly, but loud enough to cut through the chatter, “No.”
The room was quiet, waiting.
“What’s going on, Roz?” Wiebe sounded confused, if not slightly annoyed.
Ilya turned, jaw tight, hands clenching. He tried to control his breathing, but found it difficult. He wouldn’t out Shane, ever, but he needed his team to understand the rage burning through him.
“That team is full of racist fucking bigots. I want to fucking destroy them.” He made purposeful eye contact with them.
“Whoa, whoa, what?” Zane was one of many voicing their shock or disbelief. There were many people of color on their team, something pointed out in biting chirps before. It wasn’t unheard of for members of their team to be harassed for that very reason from players across the league. It had gotten slightly better with time, but after the US election in 2016, roadies to the states had gotten slightly nastier again. It had become a sore subject for the Centaurs. Any time someone spewed any kind of slur, it was noted and then taken care of—never to be forgotten by the team. It was unheard of, however, to come across almost an entire roster rotten to the core.
“We have all noticed them abandoning Hollander, da? They have been calling him…blyat. I do not wish to say. Is very bad. They are isolating him and treating him like fucking shit.”
“I mean, that sounds horrible, Cap. But why would they start that now, though? He’s led them to 3 fucking cups, I mean…I know you said it was bad but what exactly were they saying? Did they just turn racist out of the blue? Are we sure that’s the actual issue here?” One of the assistant coaches, Rogers, spoke up.
Ilya couldn’t help the glare he shot towards his coach.
“They called him a geisha fucking whore. Racist enough for you?”
A collective, hissing intake of air spread through the air.
“He told me himself. You saw them play, it’s fucking obvious they’re fucking him over.”
Young shrugged his shoulders and stood.
“Enough said, for me. Let’s fucking kill them, boys.”
Holmberg and LaPointe stood while nodding, the trio standing together, as always. Luca joined them, bottom lip slightly wobbly, but staying strong. The team all stood, affirming their renewed bloodlust.
“Yes. That’s what I want to fucking hear.” Ilya took a deep breath, attempting to shift gears. “Bood, you know the Green Tapestry owners, right?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Good, call them. I’m renting it. Mandatory team outing, everyone is required to go. And I mean everyone.” He pointed at their staff and coaches, all nodding back. No one was about to turn up free food, especially at the team’s favorite Montreal haunt.
“It might cost more, Cap. I’m not sure they can do it at the last minute.”
“Add $10,000 to whatever price they throw at you. Join warm-ups when it’s booked. We’re gonna show Hollander a good fucking time, da?”
The team answered as one,
“DA!”
“Let’s fucking roll out, then!”
~
Ottawa Centaurs vs Montreal Metros, 3rd period, March 3rd
Ilya couldn’t have been more proud of his team after the ass whooping they delivered to Montreal in the final period. Sure, they didn’t win, but they didn’t let up for a second. 3 goals were scored and the Metros looked beyond flabbergasted by the effort and sudden viciousness.
It was aimed towards all, but Hollander. Ilya hadn’t needed to even give direction to his team before he heard them calling out compliments for Shane as the period went on. Sweetly, he blushed at every one.
After Shane had somehow, impossibly, scored a last second, fourth goddamn goal, and was left alone to celebrate, Ilya zoomed up beside him and matched his pace. He was closer than what was strictly necessary as he leaned in to murmur,
“That might’ve been the sexiest little goal I’ve seen all season, Hollander.”
Ilya’s eyes instantly zeroed onto Shane’s wet, pink mouth which was formed in a silent “o”. In an utter betrayal of his control, his dick twitched, causing him to abruptly turn heel and make his way to the bench before he could do something stupid like make slow, heated eye contact. Later, he told himself.
~
Ilya barely had time to quietly command his team to not utter a word to a single Metro besides Shane, before it was time for handshakes. Last in line, he got the final shake for each player. Pettiness overtook him and he clenched as hard as he could, wanting to bruise each and every single one of their calloused fingers.
Seeing Shane at the end of the line was a balm for his rage. He was clearly overwhelmed at the outpouring of respect from the Centaurs, trying desperately to keep his voice steady.
“Thank you, Rozanov.” His eyes trailed up to meet Ilya’s once, but seemed more comfortable staring at his nose and lips. “What…exactly did you tell them?”
Ilya wished he could tell Shane why he didn’t out him, beyond common decency. He longed to hug him, let him know that they were more alike than his reputation might suggest, that the fears of their youth would have mirrored each other’s. He wanted desperately to be unguarded with Shane, and that frightened him a little, but not more so than it excited him.
“I told them your team were racist fucking pricks and what words you told me they said. I let them decide how to carry out their own games in their own way,” a blatant lie to himself, he was choosing to believe, “Buuut, they all seemed to have a pretty clear consensus on how they were going to act going forward. Nothing about the reason why they were saying that shit was said, you have my word, Hollander.”
He wasn’t used to speaking so much at once, but he needed Shane to know that he was a safe person to talk to, to confide in.
Shane’s eyes were so glassy, Ilya could see himself reflected back in the unshed tears. He seemed to convince himself he was continuing on just fine without anyone noticing, so Ilya let him think so. Shane’s jaw trembled slightly, pouting his lips unconsciously. They were in dangerous territory for Ilya, now.
“I appreciate that, Rozanov. It’s been…yeah. It’s just been a lot. Do you, by any chance, still have my number from the All-Stars game last year?” He looked nervous, but hopeful. Ilya melted, nodding back with a gentle smile. Shane smiled in return. “Just text me when you guys arrive and I-I’ll make my way.”
Fuck. Ilya was burning with some sort of affection that went beyond platonic, there was no use in denying it. He knew Shane was in a vulnerable state, though, and didn’t want to overwhelm or rush him. There was something to the man that made Ilya want to take things slow, build something proper with trust and care. He had never been someone’s partner before, never been called a boyfriend, never brought back to meet someone’s parents. He was always just a good time for whoever met his fancy.
He felt…different about Shane. He wanted to get to know him as a person, he wanted to earn a place in his life, if he could. He had always admired and looked up to him as a hockey legend, but since their time together at All-Stars, he had found himself thinking about the shy, sweet man beneath the mountain of talent more often than he would admit to. He couldn’t say what exactly was so different about him, he just knew in his gut it wasn’t the same as his many hook-ups.
He shot Shane a flirtatious, but sincere, look. Just because this would be his first attempt at something real and solid—maybe even a potential relationship—didn’t mean he couldn’t use his considerable skillset from his previous dalliances.
“How could I ever delete Jane off my phone? She is prettiest girl in there.” It was the most honest thing he had ever said. “Yes, yes I will text you, do not worry.” Shane’s face was positively red. Ilya’s brain unhelpfully supplied, “moy pomidor,” before he leaned a little closer.
“Bye, Jane.”
A promise.
“Bye, Lily.”
A whisper.
The Green Tapestry could not come soon enough.