Chapter Text
The first thing Ilya learned about North America was that people smiled too much. It wasn’t genuine; he could instantly tell that it never was.
The girls at reception desks smiled, the nutritionist who assessed him smiled too. The man from the league who handed him his laminated schedule smiled the hardest of all, when he gave a speech about responsibility and privilege, as though being drafted by the NHL was something holy and not just another machine that Ilya had to survive.
Ilya watched their smiles not reach their eyes, and he smiled back when required. He had always been good at understanding systems if it meant survival.
The program itself was simple enough: Wake up. Train. Conditioning, media training, nutrition, tapes. Mandatory team-building activities which Ilya already dreaded for many different reasons. And for the European kids, there were even English support classes. Six months of this, Ilya thought, all because the NHL had concluded they were not quite ready for their rookie year just yet.
And yet when Ilya stepped away from the coach and watched over the yard now filled with this year’s prospects, it was as if they walked differently after the draft. They walked straighter, with their heads angled in such a way as though a camera might appear out of nowhere. Ilya found it embarrassing.
Being drafted didn’t change anything.
It had been devastating for Ilya—when he had found out that he was picked first overall, when he had waited for the excitement, the self satisfaction, maybe—but it had never come. Not even pride, because Grigory had beaten the pride out of him over the years, and Ilya knew deep down that nothing he gave would ever be enough.
Being first didn’t change anything at all. His father had stood by as the Deputy of the Boston Bears rained praises on him, and his father had responded by calling him lazy.
Foolishly, he had expected something dramatic at being drafted, some shift in his body, relief—like surfacing for air after years underwater. Because finally, finally, he would be leaving Russia. He would be leaving his father and Alexei, the way he had been wishing and working for since the day his mother had left him to bear it all alone.
Instead there had only been the same quiet flatness.
He had sat in the hotel room after the draft, still wearing his best suit, while reporters downstairs talked about generational talent and the future of the league. And he had sat there and sat there, and he had thought, very calmly, oh. So it follows you everywhere.
The disappointment had lingered in his mouth for too long afterwards, because this was the thing he had built his entire life around. He had endured it all, worked relentlessly for it, and now that he held that long sought-after freedom in his hands, it had been for nothing.
His mother had endured it too. Until she couldn’t anymore, in the end.
He’d been twelve years old and standing in the doorway to her now-empty room, stripped clean and smelling faintly of bleach, when he’d understood it all at once.
There were exits in life. The knowledge had settled into him then, and it had settled into him permanently. Most children discovered love, or fear, or religion, and held onto it for the rest of their lives, letting it shape all their choices. But standing there, Ilya had discovered contingency.
He’d decided that if things became unbearable for long enough, there was always a way out.
That thought had been comforting over the years. But he had not expected to still need it here. The thought had sharpened across the last few weeks instead of fading, the way Ilya had expected it to.
Now, there was the option to stay, and keep going. And there was the option to go back to Russia, and keep going. But then, there was that third option. Always there, waiting for him if he ever decided to take it.
He dragged himself through the first day, and cringed through the introductions and the awkwardness of the new living arrangements. He was to share a dorm with four other guys. The room was big enough, but he was glad to not have to suffer through it for long. He wasn’t really paying attention either way. He’d spent the entire day inside his own head already calculating his way out.
In the end he decided that the roof was probably best.
He would give it two more days, because he could allow the prospects just a few more days to really feel the excitement, at least. He didn’t want to cause a scene and ruin their joy at being here so immediately. He could give them a few days to settle in a little, before the news broke, and they all had to pretend that they cared.
Those three days were useful, because Ilya spent them finalising his strategy. He would have to do it during the quietest hours, sometime late at night when everyone would be asleep. Someone would find him eventually, early in the morning before anyone else really got up.
He had counted the floors—four floors up, to be precise. No risk of surviving with catastrophic injuries if done properly. The building overlooked concrete on the north side near the loading entrance, so hopefully the janitor would find him first. There was no reason to traumatise some exhausted eighteen-year-old for the rest of his life.
So; late on the third day after conditioning, when the trainers had dismissed everyone and encouraged sleep recovery, Ilya waited for the building to quiet. Then, at around midnight, he snuck out of his room-share, and climbed up the stairs slowly.
The roof access door opened with a heavy metallic groan that made him pause with a wince, listening for movement below. When there was nothing, he stepped out into the cold air.
It was actually kind of beautiful. The lake beyond the complex blinked back at him under the night sky, black and endless, and it kind of looked like home. A vast forest stretched around them on all sides, isolating the program away from the rest of Montana. Somewhere far off, Ilya tracked a truck moving slowly along the highway and let it lull him deeper into a sense of calm.
He walked closer to the edge and looked down.
The concrete patch looked smaller than he had calculated. He’d have to aim properly, if he wanted to land cleanly. He leaned further over the ledge, testing the perspective. He leaned until his head hung lower than the rest of his body and breathed in, letting the cold air rush against his face. He could imagine falling like this. The air almost felt like it was welcoming him.
Eventually he leaned back upright and reached into his hoodie, pulling out his cigarettes.
They had told him he would need to quit, of course, because coaches monitored everything and anything with long-term consequences was discouraged. But the point of long-term consequences became less persuasive once you stopped planning for a long term.
The lighter sparked three times, refusing to catch, before a voice stopped him in his tracks.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here.”
Ilya turned, his eyes landing on a boy standing near the metal door staring at him with visible disapproval.
Pitch black hair tinted blue in the moonlight. Freckles dusted over the bridge of his nose. The Canucks jersey that Ilya had recognised earlier in the room he shared with the other boys, but hadn’t spared much attention to. Shane Hollander, second overall.
He looked exactly like the kind of guy assembled in a lab specifically to play hockey for Montreal. Even now at midnight he stood with impossible posture, shoulders squared like an invisible coach was evaluating him.
For a moment, Ilya just stared. Then Shane frowned slightly.
“There are signs,” he pointed.
“Okay…” Ilya said, looking around at the empty roof.
But Shane kept going, shifting closer towards him. “Didn’t you hear the complex coordinator during introductions? Our rooms would be raided if even a single cigarette butt is found on the ground.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, trying to soften his accent with effort. “Sounds very tragic.”
“And you can get fined.”
“By who?” he scoffed lightly.
“The program,” Shane said immediately and confidently, as if ‘the program’ was a branch of government.
Ilya stared at him another second longer before lifting the unlit cigarette still pinched between his fingers. “You followed me up here because of a cigarette, or what?”
“No,” Shane said slowly. “This is my spot.”
“Is not your spot,” Ilya said.
“I came up here first,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was here yesterday.”
“How do you know I was not here the day before?” Ilya asked.
“Because I was up here then, too,” Shane answered almost childishly. “I found it on the first night.”
That finally made Ilya bare his teeth in something almost close to a smile. Shane only continued to look at him, his eyes drifting slowly over their surroundings as though he was finally registering them properly. A small furrow appeared between his brows when his attention landed on the ledge, and he stepped forward to place his palm flat against it.
Then he looked back at Ilya. “You’re standing too close,” he said, as though that was his final assessment.
Ilya almost shocked himself into a laugh. Not because it was funny particularly, but mostly because the observation itself felt absurdly innocent.
“Yes,” he said. “Was looking at the view.”
Shane ignored him though, as if Ilya hadn’t said anything at all. The furrow remained between his brows, and Ilya watched it as the other boy processed something internally.
“This is way too low. The council of Ottawa requires ledges to be at least a hundred and thirty two centimetres tall,” he said slowly. Then he frowned harder. “But maybe it's different in Montana.”
Ilya snorted softly. Bozhe moy, what was going on. Ilya had come up here to jump, and here was Shane Hollander talking about construction specifics.
“How do you even know that?”
“I read it in the building report when my parents bought their apartment,” Shane explained, like it was the most normal thing to do. He nearly looked annoyed at himself for only noticing it now. “They really should build this higher. It’s a liability. Someone could get hurt, and the owners would be held responsible.”
Ilya was smiling again now, small and completely out of his control. The point of the night had derailed so completely from death that Ilya found himself vaguely annoyed by it, deep down. He had been ready, he’d thought everything through practically, the goal of it clean and linear. Hollander arriving to discuss proper conduct and roof safety felt almost disrespectful to the process. But it was also very entertaining.
“Anyway,” Shane said, “you shouldn’t stand so close.”
“Alright.”
Shane’s eyes dropped again to the cigarette in Ilya’s hand. Making a point of it, Ilya tucked it back into his pack, and shoved it back into his hoodie pocket.
Then he looked at him properly. At the way he kept his thumbs in the pockets of his joggers, and the slight flush in his cheeks from the cold. The rigid posture that made him seem permanently braced for evaluation. He was unbearable. And somehow also, unexpectedly, a little endearing. Almost like a very anxious police dog.
“I’ll keep your secret,” Shane said after a moment. “About the smoking. Just this once.”
“They do say the Canadians are nice like that,” Ilya replied, but the boy didn’t seem to catch the humour in it, continuing on.
“But we should go downstairs soon.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re out past curfew.”
“Ah yes,” Ilya murmured. “The rules.”
Shane only nodded seriously. “The handbook said repeated violations can affect placement.”
Of course he had read the handbook already. He’d probably read every word, possibly even twice over.
Ilya took a deep breath in, turning to look back over the edge once more.
The moment had passed now anyway. The stillness inside him had broken apart around the interruption, his thought pathways shifting elsewhere entirely, settling into something more like inconvenience. He would have to find another time, maybe another method, but it wasn’t entirely catastrophic.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll go back to bed.”
Then he walked past him towards the roof door. Shane followed him down the stairs quietly, so quiet that Ilya barely heard his footsteps. It was remarkable how this hundred-and-eighty-pound boy simply drifted so silently behind him.
When they got to their room-share, Ilya glanced back. Shane nodded at him once before heading to his side of the room and climbing into bed. Ilya got in his own and tried desperately to shut his brain off for a few hours.
The room settled back into darkness around them. Someone across the room snored softly. A door creaked open somewhere across the hall. Ilya stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening as Shane shifted beneath his blankets before finally stilling.
It was faintly absurd, Ilya thought blearily, that this handbook-obsessed boy had managed to interrupt the momentum of death without a single clue.
The next time Ilya decided he would do it, it was a week later, and he went looking for pills.
The decision came to him midway through a video analysis session while some retired defenseman-turned-development coach paused footage every three seconds to lecture them about discipline in the neutral zone. Ilya sat through it with his back leaned all the way into his seat, eyes fixed on the frozen screen while the thought settled itself neatly into place.
The roof was too inconvenient now, compromised. Shane Hollander had apparently claimed it as his spot, which was ridiculous enough on its own, but worse than that was the possibility that he might appear again. He didn’t particularly want an audience the second time round. The image of the boy looking over and finding him like that was something Ilya tried not to think about too much.
Pills were quieter anyway, and he was kind of annoyed at himself for not picking it first. His mother had chosen pills. The thought arrived without emotion, just another practical consideration among many others. He remembered the pill bottle empty on the bedside table, the ambulance lights outside their apartment building. Pills had done the job well enough.
Ilya would set a blanket in a broom cupboard somewhere. He'd block the door and lay himself down, go with a little more dignity that the previous plan. Ilya only felt bad for the damn janitor, who would very likely be the one to find him again in this plan, too. But better a janitor than someone else. Janitors were better versed in dealing with messy situations, he thought morbidly.
It was only four in the afternoon, but he knew he had to sneak in before the medical office got locked up for the evening. It sat at the end of the first floor hall beside the physio rooms. Ilya had already mapped out the layout during orientation week, while the trainers explained injury protocols and emergency procedures. So he walked directly for it, dodging staff as they moved in and out of doors.
The door opened easily beneath his hand. He stepped in, an excuse already waiting on the tip of his tongue, but the room was humming with the quiet of the overhead lights. He breathed in, taking in the sharp chemical scent of disinfectant and something more stale beneath it. He breathed it back out, and made for the medication cabinets.
He needed to find something effective. Something that his body wouldn’t reject too quickly before pulling him into something he wouldn’t return from. He frowned as he read the names, none of them really registering.
He jumped, then, quite embarrassingly, at the sharp sound of plastic curtains being pulled open.
“Er, what are you doing?”
Ilya shut the cabinet with a soft bang and dropped his head low dramatically. For a brief second he genuinely considered whether Shane Hollander might simply materialise anytime he went to attempt suicide, like some kind of deeply irritating guardian spirit.
He turned around to look back up at him.
Shane was sitting partially hidden away behind one of the privacy screens with an ice pack strapped around his knee and a roll of beige bandaging resting beside him. He wore a long sleeved compression shirt and tight grey athletic shorts. Ilya tried not to stare too long.
“You again,” Ilya said rudely.
“You don’t have to be an asshole,” Shane replied flatly. He even looked disapproving, the way he had his eyes squinted at him, suspicion settling over the line of his brows.
“Sorry,” Ilya replied despite himself.
“What are you even doing here?” Shane asked.
“I’m looking for drugs.”
Ilya could have laughed at Shane’s reaction then. It was so immediate, the way his eyes widened very slightly, something closer to severe administrative concern rather than anything else.
He straightened abruptly. “What kind?”
“What kind?” Ilya parroted.
“What kind of drugs?” And Ilya sensed the note of urgency in Shane’s voice now, his brows furrowing deeper and deeper the longer Ilya didn’t answer back.
“You seriously cannot do that here,” Shane continued quickly. “There’s mandatory no-notice testing, and that's not even counting PED testing.”
Ilya opened his mouth in an attempt to respond but Shane ignored him entirely, already continuing down whatever anxious pathway his brain had committed itself to.
“And some medications affect reaction time and cardiac conditioning, so if you take something that interferes with performance metrics then your team gets informed and—”
“You think I’m doping?” Ilya interrupted.
Shane paused then. “Er… aren’t you?”
The silence that followed was so absurd that Ilya shocked himself by laughing. It wasn’t a polite laugh at all. It wasn’t even one of his sharp sarcastic laughs he usually weaponised against people. No, it was somewhere in between, a real laugh that escaped him before he could stop it, brief and rough around the edges from disuse.
Shane only frowned harder at it. He stared at him hard for another second, visibly trying to reorganise the interaction into something logical. His fingers tapped three times against the edge of the examination bed before going still again.
“It’s not funny. You shouldn’t take random medication,” he said finally, slower now. “Especially before rookie conditioning.”
“Does it say that in the handbook?”
Shane finally got the sense that Ilya was maybe making fun of him a little bit. He looked away, fixing his eyes on a spot on the floor.
The afternoon sun was dipping low in the sky, turning the room golden. Somewhere outside, a few of the guys broke out in distant laughter.
For some reason the whole thing felt strangely intimate, hitting Ilya suddenly. Here were the two top prospects sitting in an empty medical office, and they weren’t even friends. They were still practically strangers. And yet it felt intimate.
“Do you like it here?” Ilya asked suddenly.
Shane blinked back up at him. “The programme?”
Ilya nodded, and waited as Shane considered the question carefully, like he was genuinely trying to calculate the correct answer.
“It’s been productive.”
There it was again, that same severe practicality. Shane spoke about hockey the way religious people spoke about God—with complete structural devotion.
“I want to be ready for Montreal,” Shane continued, certainty settling over his voice. “They already sent development materials.”
Ilya almost smiled, softening. “I bet you have read them all already.”
Shane nodded stiffly, but his next answer came quickly again. “I just want to be prepared.” And it was certain enough that something underneath caught Ilya’s attention. He ran his tongue across his teeth briefly, trying to name it.
It wasn’t arrogance at all. There was a reason this kid had been drafted second overall. He needed this. It was pure need, as though he’d built his entire internal world around hockey so completely that failing at it would collapse something fundamental inside of him.
“Well, Montreal sucks,” Ilya said lightly. “They are probably desperate enough they would have taken you unprepared.”
“They do not suck. And I still have to meet their expectations.”
Ilya smiled faintly. “You know,” he said. “Second overall is still impressive.”
Shane’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, but Ilya caught it.
Ah. It was the wrong thing to say anyway. Everyone had spent the entire draft comparing them already, tied between the Russian prodigy versus the Canadian phenom. A perfect future rivalry manufactured before either of them had even faced each other for a professional game.
“Hey,” Ilya said, trying to get him to meet his eyes again. “You’ll move up soon enough.”
Shane looked at him like he was a being thick. “That’s not how drafting works.”
Ilya smiled humourlessly, and for one terrible second, he wanted to say it does if the first pick dies.
Before he could come up with an alternative answer, footsteps rounded the corner from the other side of the wall. Shane sat up straighter immediately, posture reorganising itself into perfect compliance. Like a doll returning to the same position that it had been left in.
A moment later the doctor stepped back into the room. She stopped when she noticed Ilya standing beside the cabinets.
“Hello,” she said slowly, looking between them. “Is everything alright?” Her eyes focused back on Ilya. “Can I help you with something?”
The question lingered around Ilya, and he tried to work his brain around an answer, around something that could get him closer to what he was after. He looked briefly at the cabinets behind him, then quickly at the shelves lined with more labelled bottles on the other wall.
Then, at Shane Hollander, sitting rigidly upright with the ice pack melting against his knee and the line of panic across his jaw.
“Yes, I...” he started, looking back at her waiting expression. “I wanted to ask for some sleeping pills. I have not been sleeping. Missing home.”
“Oh dear,” she said, and Ilya thanked the heavens—or mother nature, or whatever was out there—that she was the practical type, because she moved over to the cabinet.
Ilya stepped back as she reached in and pulled out a small orange bottle. He took a mental note of the name before she turned the cap, dropping two pills into his palm.
“Take one to start, then wait thirty minutes. It should do the trick, but you boys are growing, so you may need the second.”
Two pills. What was he supposed to do with two pills. He pursed his lips and said, “Thank you.”
Looking back at Shane, he nodded a quick goodbye before dragging his feet to the door and leaving.
When he got to his bed, he bent over his bedside table and placed the two pills loosely towards the back. They weren't much use to him now.