Chapter Text
Ilya stares at the suitcase full of cash dispassionately.
"Okay," the general manager for the Ottawa Centaurs takes a long drag of his smoke. "Looks like I need to sweeten the pot even further."
He pushes over a glossy photo of a dangerously beautiful Chevrolet Camaro. It sits, unassuming, next to a small-fonted NHL contract, a brochure for a luxury high-rise by the river, and, of course, $10,000 in cash.
Ilya, who's been sleeping in an army bunk with no windows since he was ten, tries not to look too seduced by this.
"Listen, Mr. Rozanov." The general manager is talking out of the side of his mouth, his cigarette dropping ashes all over the hotel table. "We like you. We want you. We understand you are putting yourself under a fair amount of risk here, meeting with us like this. I hope it's obvious that if you play for us, we will set you up for a good life in Canada."
He pauses, looks Ilya in the eye. "But you have to understand, if you agree to this, you have to be prepared to leave with us right now."
Ilya considers this. Takes a drag out of his own cigarette—a good honest Moscow brand he's held onto despite the shortage, none of that girly bullshit North Americans smoke. "You are asking me to defect," he says, slowly. His English outside of an academic context sounds clunky to his own ears. "To desert the military."
The general manager drops the salesman act. In this context, he looks quite serious. "Yes."
"All this trouble," Ilya drawls. "Just because you want me to play?"
"We think you are worth it," The general manager repeats.
"You are familiar with my father?" he asks. Grigori Rozanov is a high-ranking official in the party and has aspirations for his son to follow in his footsteps. "I could become a felon. If I am a criminal in Russia, I cannot get my visa to play for your little team."
"We will take care of it," the general manager says confidently, though Ilya can pick up that this guy, who is trying hard not to look over his shoulder, is scared. The KGB has been hot on Ilya since he arrived in Stockholm, and considering that this is the fourth time the GM has pushed to change their meeting location, they're probably following him as they speak. "Leave the legal stuff to us. You just need to figure out—do you want to play?"
This guy is scared. Like, real scared. Yet, he is still willing to stick his neck out, all for the possibility that he can get Ilya to play on his team.
"Your team is shit," Ilya says, bluntly.
"Actually," The general manager corrects. "Shane Hollander recently got traded over to us. Shane Hollander? Japanese guy? Montreal? Familiar with him?"
Of course Ilya's familiar with him. "That was two seasons ago. You are not winning with him."
"Yeah, because having him on The Centaurs is, like, giving a bazooka to a team of five year olds." The general manager laughs heartily at his own joke. He glances at Ilya, who remains stone-faced, and stops. "He has no support. We are looking to get more players who can play on his level. Happy talent, happy team, is what my dad always told me. And with this new owner, we are primed to really shake up the roster this year."
"You have pizza money," Ilya says, shortly.
The general manager laughs. "Oh no, that's Detroit. God bless Little Caesars. Terrible pizza, but the owner's got good instincts. That's actually a really good example of what we can do for you here. In Canada, you'd be a rockstar. Like Detroit, Ottawa's been itching for a cup win for the past fifty years. You come in, you cinch that for us, you'd be a legend."
Ilya stays silent, arms crossed. The general manager sighs and leans in.
"Is there someone here? Holding you back?" the general manager whispers, lowering his voice. "Come on, man, I'm on hands and knees here. Do you have a wife? Kids? Someone you don't want to leave behind?"
Ilya thinks about his father. His piece of shit, good-for-nothing brother.
He thinks about a stadium of twenty thousand people, screaming his name.
Finally, he thinks of his mother, may she rest in peace.
"... Because I can help them too! Sure, it's definitely more of a hassle, but you know, for you—"
"All this," Ilya says. He leans in, with a smirk, stabbing his finger on the papers littering the table. "Just to play some hockey?"
"Like I said," And the general manager's face changes. Ilya thinks this guy might actually be American. Because his face gives it all away, the evil his country warned him of. The smile of a capitalist devil, knowing that a deal's about to close. "We really need to have you."
Ilya picks up the pen.
****
Every day Shane is on this crappy team is a day he's closer to killing himself.
He doesn't know what's wrong with them. What's wrong with him. Individually, they are all solid players. But Jesus Christ, together they just can't win. It's downright depressing to watch. Nevermind play.
Shane stays behind after training. He's sitting on the bench, scribbling furiously in a spiral notebook. He's chewing idly at his hoodie strings, trying to come up with another play that Coach Wiebe and his teammates will probably ignore. He's just about to finish up when suddenly Centaurs' goalie Wyatt Hayes runs up to him.
"You have to come to the locker room. Now."
Shane frowns. Holds up his notebook. "I'm busy."
"Forget that, man. It's all over the news. Ilya Rozanov has just defected from the Soviet Union."
Shane freezes.
He lets himself get pulled up and dragged into the locker room. The entire time, all Shane can think is please not Montreal, please not Montreal, even though the Voyageurs already replaced Shane with a talented Quebecois native three years younger than him.
However, considering Shane's luck as of late, Rozanov joining his former team would really the last great fuck you the city of Montreal could give him.
Inside, seventeen grown men are crowded around a tiny television set that had been haphazardly scooted out in front of the coach's office.
Shane can't see a thing, but he hears it loud as day.
Not only has Rozanov defected, reports are saying he's already landed in Ottawa International.
Shane turns to Wyatt, horrified. Wyatt matches his expression with a grim one of his own. "You have to be fucking kidding me." Shane says, disbelieving.
"That's probably why they traded Kent away," Wyatt replies.
Kent getting traded was nothing but good news to Shane, especially since on top of being a dogshit player, Kent was also a total asshole. But replacing him with a Russian, especially with one as unpredictable as Rozanov—
Shane gets a lump in his throat.
Paranoia, a learned but sure emotion, surges. He used to be much better about not succumbing to jealousy and competition, but considering the past two years, Shane's wise to watch his back.
His hand tightens into a fist, and unconsciously, he's gathered his hoodie strings into his mouth again. He's chewing hard, and he thinks he's going to break plastic soon when there's a loud protesting sound next to him.
"Bro, you need to relax on that."
"Shit." Shane spits, and to his embarrassment, a bit of saliva stains his hoodie. Wyatt tries very hard not to look grossed out to be nice, but Shane can tell he's kind of disgusted. "Sorry, I do that when I'm stressed."
Or experiencing any kind of strong emotion. But Wyatt didn't need to know that.
"No, it's cool. I'm stressed too." Wyatt says. "Why would Ilya Rozanov want to play for the Ottawa Centaurs? That actually makes no fucking sense."
The Russian play style is defined by its structure. Check one guy, the team closes rank to take his place—a calculated, weaving motion. It's what makes playing against someone like Rozanov, who's been training with the same team since he was ten, fucking infuriating. Because if their opponent lets go of the puck for one second, it'll be swept up in a torrent of constantly moving assists that only ends when the puck falls in Rozanov's hands, and he sends it straight into the goal.
What that means is bringing just one Russian makes no sense. A Russian superstar without a team behind him? He'd be useless—too unfamiliar, too infamous to really work with anyone.
Like Shane.
Was Shane not good enough? Sure, they brought him in to turn things around for the team, and Shane hasn't been able to do that.
Shane cinched Montreal back-to-back cup wins in his first two seasons on the team. Before Shane, the last time the Voyageurs won the cup was 1968.
Shane's heart sinks. Is he going to get traded again?
The idea that Rozanov is expected to just swan in and fix Shane's shortcomings makes him angry to the point of frustration. His hands keep clenching tightly into fists, and even though he always cuts his nails down to the beds, they still manage to dig harsh crescents into the meat of his palm.
"Woah," Wyatt says again. "You good man?"
"This is such a…" Shane laughs, a little hysterically. "This is such a Rozanov thing to do. He always had to be the center of attention."
Wyatt snorts. "Remember when he wiped your ass at that fucking bloodbath—the Helsinki Hellhole?"
Shane's face flushes indignantly. "He didn't 'wipe' anything! It was a completely even fight, dickhead!"
Wyatt, like many of his new teammates, has only ever participated in the World Junior Ice Hockey Championships behind a TV screen.
When Shane was with Montreal, he'd already played with half the guys on the Voyageurs for almost five years. His experience handling the USSR in international youth tournaments earned him the respect he needed for his teammates to follow him unquestioningly on the ice. No matter how they treated him outside of the game, when Shane was charging through another team's defense, he never doubted that they would be right around the corner to help him send the goal in.
Shane tells himself he never played for trophies or titles, except who is he kidding? It's all he plays for, because Shane plays to win.
Which makes it hard not to resent his Ottawa teammates for being so much worse than him.
****
Helsinki Hellhole, more formally known as the 1979 World Junior Hockey Championships, had occupied a unique spot in international hockey history. It had followed four years after the USSR's first international appearance on the hockey stage, and since then the Soviet Union quickly had established themselves as the unbeatable heel of the sport.
Canada finally had someone to beat. The hatred for the Soviet Union had turbocharged fan participation. Shane still remembered sitting next to his mom, watching the 1976 Super Series on their tiny TV screen. His mom had been shouting the nastiest expletives known to man, telling the damn Ruskies to lose the fucking puck! while his dad had read Ulysses in the corner.
To make matters worse, international youth tournaments, the biggest source of talent for the NHL, had only reaffirmed the USSR's dominance. Russia had proceeded to sweep gold for four consecutive years, completely embarrassing Canada at every turn.
So in Helsinki, people that night had been out for blood. Hatred for Russia had hit an all-time high back then. It felt like war. While Canada had outnumbered Russia in the stands by numbers, the USSR had always known how to show up loud. There had not been a single person out there who didn't make it very clear who they hated, and how happy it would make them to see the other team smeared across the ice.
Shane had entered the hockey world as a twelve-year-old wunderkind. He was a one-of-a-kind talent in just about everything—except human relations. So even as the eighteen-year-olds had given him the cold shoulder for outperforming them on the team, Shane knew he had their respect. He had definitely gotten everyone's respect when, with ten seconds left of the second period, he had tied the game with Russia using a whip-quick backhand no one short of superhuman could've blocked.
When the buzzer sounded, Shane only got a second to smile to himself, face flush with victory, when suddenly—
Shane heard before he saw the punch.
One of Team Canada's seniors had fallen onto the ice with a sickening crack, as the Russian starting forward lunged at him with a scream. In response, one of Canada's defensemen had jumped in, throwing gloves off. Quickly, a pile-up had formed right on the center of the ice, as each team member scrabbled to find the nearest person wearing an opposing jersey to tear into.
It had only taken fifteen seconds for everything to descend into chaos. Panicked refs had raced onto the ice, desperately trying to separate the biggest players as gleeful commentators shouted over the nationalist roaring of the crowd.
Shane had been completely frozen. When it came to checking, Shane was better than seasoned pros. If he had to fight for the puck, he would do everything in his power to regain control. But when the game ended, and it was time to throw gloves, that was when Shane started to feel less like a wunderkind and more of a… well.
A child.
A broad Russian was skating up to him in the distance. Shane had sucked in a scared breath, clutching his club in anticipation. He'd never thrown a punch, but if he needed to he had more than enough examples around him to learn from, as his teammates kept pile-driving their nearest opponent into the ice, spraying what definitely looked like blood across the rink.
When he had gotten closer, Shane recognized the Russian as Rozanov.
Rozanov had been a monster that game. Shane had not been able to shake him—anytime Shane let down his guard once, he would get sent straight into the boards. But in turn, the guy could never shake Shane. When he approached, Shane raised his club protectively over himself, psyching himself up to throw a punch. But Shane was already smaller than the average hockey player, and he had been trembling uncontrollably even as Rozanov skidded to a stop in front of him.
"You need to hit someone," Rozanov had told him, in a thick Russian accent.
"What?" Shane had asked. The English from the Russian teams had never been particularly good to start, without the added challenge of trying to understand them over the commotion of about forty teenage boys pounding each other into the rink.
"Your country will think you are a coward. You need to hit someone."
"I don't…" Shane swallowed. "I don't want to get ejected. I don't want to break the rules."
Rozanov scoffed. "You are a hockey player. You do not want to break the rules?"
Shane's hackles rose. "This," Shane gestured widely around him. "Is not the kind of hockey I want to play."
"I am helping you." Rozanov then had picked up his club and lightly jabbed Shane in the chest, right where his name had been printed on his jersey. "Hol-an-der," he sounded out slowly, using his hockey stick to trace over each syllable in his name. "Do you want your teammates to hate you, Hol-an-der?"
Shane had felt himself get angry, a flush rising hard and fast on his face.
"I don't need your help," Shane snapped. "This is stupid. Hockey is better than this. It's not just some lame excuse for a bunch of roided out jocks to beat the crap out of each other."
Rozanov shot Shane a condescending look. Shane wished Rozanov would just punch him and get it over with. But he just kept standing there. "This is all hockey. And this is your team." Rozanov gestured to the pandemonium behind them. "Take her or leave her. You cannot pick and choose."
And to punctuate his statement, Rozanov suddenly skidded his skate, kicking up a fistful of shaved ice right into Shane's face.
Shane had flinched at the movement, which only made him angrier. "I'm not fighting you," Shane snapped again, even as ice sprayed across his jersey.
Rozanov kept staring at Shane, which was weirding him out. It felt like he was reading the fine print on Shane's soul. Then, after a beat, he smiled. He held his head high, sizing Shane up.
"Maybe you are scared. Maybe because you fight as well as you shoot?" Rozanov whistled, smiling meanly.
The insult had landed, as intended, like a bomb in Shane's chest. Staring at Rozanov, who had just stood there, smirking at him, Shane felt, for the first time, a rage completely unproductive to his game.
And so, there was only one thing left to do.
Shane dropped his club, his gloves. He took a deep breath, and then he swung.
And just as his fist connected with Rozanov's nose, the arena's lights switched off.
There was a tense hush of silence that had fallen over the arena. The quiet only lasted three seconds before sparking a round of violence that only got more frantic and brutal in the darkness.
Shane had no idea what the fuck he was doing. There was no way he would ever, in a million years, beat Rozanov in a fight, but he had given it his best effort. All around him, chants of "Kill the Reds!" had drowned out the blood roaring in his ears. Shane had only landed that one punch before Rozanov shoved him, back-first onto the ice, knees on either side of him, weight pinning him down as he laid into him.
Shane kept his arms up in front of his face, which blocked the worst of Rozanov's blows. But Shane was still trapped under him, completely unable to move. It helped when one of his teammates, J.J., saw him tied up and joined in—yet Rozanov, even with two people on him, held his own, just managing to shake them loose. Shane's mad scramble for survival continued until, twenty minutes later, the lights came back on.
The crowd went wild at the sight of red all over the ice.
Shane, shakily trying to get back up, had found himself on his knees in front of Rozanov, with Rozanov's fists clenched tightly in his jersey.
Rozanov's hands were frozen cold, and Shane winced when he realized he could feel them like knives through his jersey, digging into his chest. Shane was breathing hard, gaze forced up, staring right into Rozanov's face—the Russian's nose pouring blood, the beginnings of a bruise forming over his right eye.
Both their helmets had tumbled off in their fight. J.J., who had come to Shane's aid, was nowhere to be found.
Without everything on, Shane could see Rozanov's face now perfectly. And Shane had found he could not look away.
Rozanov's head suddenly jerked to the side, and Shane flinched. Mostly because he thought Rozanov was going to punch him again, which was really embarrassing.
Instead, Rozanov, maintaining full eye contact with Shane, fingers warming up against his collar, turned to spit a fat glob of blood right next to Shane's knee.
The refs had announced over the comms that they were nullifying the game, to Shane's horror. When this only brought out a louder roar of protest from the stands, Rozanov finally dropped Shane's jersey.
He smirked.
"You are welcome."
Shane hissed. "Fuck you."
Rozanov's hand moved, and Shane flinched again, completely against his will. When he had recovered enough to look back up at Rozanov, Shane felt an overwhelming desire to punch the pleased look the Russian had right off his face.
Sadist.
"I am just helping you up, man." Rozanov had laughed. "I scare you that bad?"
"As if… pussy!" Shane had shouted, desperately trying to mimic locker room trash talk. This just made Rozanov laugh harder. "None of that even fucking hurt me! You hit like a girl! Just like your entire fucking country!"
"Wooow," Rozanov had said. "That hurt my feelings," he had smiled then, proud of himself. "Good thing I totally kicked the shit out of you."
Shane had tried to bat Rozanov's hand away. Instead, Rozanov caught Shane's hand in his, stopping it easily with a firm grasp—keeping him in place. Before Shane could protest too hard, Rozanov hauled him up, so they were standing face to face.
"Hollander." Rozanov had drawled. "Does not sound Chinese."
Man, fuck this guy. "I'm Japanese," he had snapped, "Dipshit. We don't all look the same."
"No, you do not look like anyone I have ever seen," Rozanov had said, plainly. "Tell me your name."
Shane squawked. "Doesn't fucking matter! I'm Hollander and I'm going to kick your commie ass, that's all you need to know."
Rozanov had smiled then. "Commie ass is hard to kick. The comforts of capitalism have made your country soft. Probably why you can't fight, and are so easy to beat."
"Tch," Shane had snapped. "My name is Shane. Shane Hollander."
Rozanov blinked, pleasantly surprised.
"You better remember that name," Shane continued, defiant. "Because next year I'm going to make sure Canada wipes the floor with you guys."
Rozanov laughed. "Not with that backhand you will."
Shane gawked at him. "There," he said, slowly, as his anger started to reach unprecedented levels of hysteria, "is nothing wrong with my backhand."
Instead of responding, Rozanov had smiled at him, wide. "Ilya. Ilya Rozanov." Rozanov paused. "You will never forget me," he declared. "I will make sure of it."
Shane had stared at him, affronted. Instead of responding, he tried to yank his hand free.
"Hey," Rozanov had warned. "Stop that." He had readjusted his grip, forcing Shane to stop struggling. With the arena lights shining down on his dirty blonde curls, blue eyes dancing in the harsh, fluorescent lights, Shane thought he looked like the devil. "Nice to meet you, Shane Hollander."
And he finally let Shane go.
Russia and Canada got disqualified from the standings that year, which meant for the first time in junior hockey history, the United States got to place. Finland took home the gold.
All the players who participated in the fight were banned from playing for the next three months.
That was Shane Hollander's first international tournament.
****
Once the newscast finishes, the locker room descends into total chaos.
Half the room is angry because they don't want to play with a communist.
The other half just don't want to play with Ilya Rozanov. "The guy's a fucking psycho!" one of the senior teammates yells.
Shane can empathize.
Coach Wiebe, trapped inside his office by the crowd of panicked athletes, attempts to regain order, to no avail.
"I know you have concerns—" he tries to shout.
"I knew a guy on the Crimsons who couldn't shit for three weeks after that freak slashed him in the Super Series." someone shouts. "The guy's gonna kill us!"
"Rozanov is a talented player who would—" the coach tries to cut in.
"Did you know," another teammate pipes up, "his dad is like, KGB royalty or something?"
Coach Wiebe grits out a sigh. "Ilya Rozanov is not affiliated—"
"Aren't they all KGB? Like don't they have to join?"
"Dude," the teammate continues. "I watched a PBS special on KGB sleeper agents, and it was the craziest shit ever. They said they like, make these guys get American or Canadian citizenship, embed themselves in the community, and then when they say their like, activation word, they just like wake up like from a bad dream and fucking kill all of us."
Wiebe looks at his wit's end. "I don't think that's quite accurate—"
"PBS would never lie to me man!"
Shane thinks Wiebe is a nice guy, but he's young. Like most of the team, there's certainly potential for him to be a good coach. But right now, he looks completely out of his depth.
So Shane decides to take pity on him and cut in. "Hey!" he shouts. All it takes is one word and suddenly, the room falls quiet, and eighteen pairs of eyes swivel over to look at him. "Rozanov is a strong player, and we all have a lot to learn from him. Don't you think that's someone you'd want on your side?"
In all honesty, when Shane last played Rozanov, Shane thought he was a talented but impulsive player. He lacked control. He got into fights. He collected unnecessary penalties. His penchant for obnoxious, attention-seeking behavior made him a distraction on and off the ice, sometimes completely costing his team the game. Shane definitely has his hesitations playing with him.
But he, under no circumstances, would ever badmouth a potential teammate, especially when they are not there to defend themselves.
"Of course Hollander likes him," another one of his teammates, a former Kent goon, snaps.
Shane whirls on him. "Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The teammate raises his chin, meets him hard in the eye. "He's another outsider. Another fucking interloper."
Fucking asshole. Shane thinks, rolling his eyes. Teammates who hate him always try to call him that—an outsider. Considering Shane isn't ten anymore, the insult bounces off him harmlessly.
However, the comment does make him wish, not for the first time in his career, that hockey was a solo sport.
"Everett!" Coach Wiebe shouts, vein bulging out of his forehead. He's furious. He looks like Shane's grade one teacher, red and angry and helpless as he repeatedly lost control of the classroom, "The next words out of your mouth better be a damn apology—"
"Yeah! We love Hollander, take that shit somewhere else—" Wyatt chimes, next to Shane.
"Yo, fuck you Everett!" Ottawa defensemen Evan Dyskstra pipes up as well. "Just 'cause Shane's Asian—"
"Dyskstra, Hayes," Shane snaps. They both obediently fall silent. In a more subdued tone, Shane turns to Coach Wiebe. "I can handle myself."
The room just keeps watching him. Waiting for him to make a move. Everett is glaring daggers at Shane, unwilling to apologize and unwilling to back down.
Two years ago, Shane had stared down his old Voyageurs teammates, meeting their silent expressions of disgust with his head held high.
Ten years ago, Shane had stared down Ilya Rozanov, after covering his face with blood.
Everett didn't stand a chance.
Shane walks slowly toward him, and his teammates part to make way for him. He walks until he stops right in front of Everett, who meets Shane with his chin raised high.
Shane leans in.
"You have it in you to make sure this team can really win," Shane says, deliberate, "if you just stopped being so insecure."
His eyes widened. "I'm not fucking insecure, you f—"
Shane cuts him off, turning away disinterestedly to address the room. "We will welcome Ilya Rozanov," Shane says, voice hard. "Because he's a part of our team. That's final."
Shane doesn't really know if anything he said resonated with the room, but no one actively disagreed with him, and it at least caused the commotion to die down. His other teammates grumble to themselves, dispersing to change out of their gear.
Everyone seems calm for the most part. All except one.
"I am not fucking insecure," the former Kent goon shouts. Holy shit, is he still on this?
And as Shane turns back around, one of their rookies shouts. "C! Watch out!"
Everett punches Shane in the face.
A couple things happen next. Shane lands on the floor, eye and cheek throbbing. Coach Wiebe is yelling something Shane can't quite catch, as Wyatt and a couple of his teammates pull Everett off him. Everett struggles against Wyatt and he shouts something Shane can't quite hear, and wrestles him into a chokehold. As the chaos unfolds around him, Shane stands up, hand over his eye, as his teammates are now dragging him out of the room, to loud and angry protests.
"I know what you did in Montreal!" Everett shouts. "You think we wouldn't know?! You think we'd ever let someone like you be a part of our team, tell us what to do—"
"Get him out of my locker room!" Coach Wiebe says, voice hard. Shane thinks he sees Everett start to mouth something horrible, when finally, Wyatt throws him out, shoving the door closed behind them.
Shane dispassionately watches him leave.
Thirty minutes later, Coach Wiebe waits until the players all filter out before he turns to look at Shane. "I'm sorry I lost control of the situation." he says, tiredly. "I hope you know that I won't tolerate a guy like that on our team."
Shane sighs. He touches his face one last time. Nothing feels broken. Shane will just have to enter the new season with a black eye probably. The Hollander good fortune continues.
"I hope the higher ups know what they are doing." Shane says, flatly. "These draft moves—it looks like you guys are throwing spaghetti at the wall."
"Trust us." Coach Wiebe says, eyes lit. "Rozanov is a once-in-a-lifetime get."
The jealousy consumes him in a wave. No wonder Everett acted the way he did, if he felt like this all the time. They used to say that about me. He thinks. He tries to blink away the horrible expression that must've crossed his face.
Coach Wiebe looks at him. "I know…" Wiebe trails off, trying to think of what to say. "I know the past two years have been hard for you."
Understatement of the century. "They have," Shane says, bluntly.
"I hope you know," he continues, awkwardly, "You'll always have a home with us on the Centaurs."
Montreal's coach said that to him, too, once. "Yeah, I know Coach."
"And maybe with Rozanov, you might get the support you really need from this team," Coach looks at him, pointedly. "On the ice."
Shane's had a bad day, and he's already upset. So very quickly, Shane's initial confusion about what Coach said very quickly gives way to anger. It comes flying out of him against his control, the way he wished it did two years ago.
All he ever wanted was to play hockey, and yet there's always all this bullshit standing in his way, all the time.
"If you coached your players better," Shane snaps, voice rising. "I would've had all the support I needed right here at home."
It was out of pocket, especially since, at least, it seemed like Coach Wiebe was just trying to be decent to him. Wiebe looks like he's been slapped. Shane swallows, tries to get his emotions back under control.
"I'm sorry," Shane says, reluctantly. "I didn't mean that. I don't know what came over me."
Coach Wiebe swallows back any visible hurt Shane might've inflicted on him. He walks over and shakily gives Shane two pats on the shoulder.
"You meant every word of that," Coach Wiebe says. "And it's okay."
He sighs, looks around the locker room, before staring back at Shane. "Just… be nice to Rozanov Monday got it? Help him feel welcome."
Shane just wants to go back onto the ice and drill through his plays, alone. So to save himself the energy of arguing, he just nods.
"You got it, coach."
****
"That Larry King is a fucking idiot!" Ottawa's general manager shouts. "First off, he got the kid's damn name wrong, and also—no one fucking kidnapped him!"
Ilya wonders when they can go to his new apartment so he can drive his new car. He's currently stuck in the general manager's absolutely massive home, waiting for him to get off the phone. To occupy himself, Ilya is watching an American movie called E.T., on the richest, sharpest, widest TV screen he's ever seen.
It certainly beat his father's home in Moscow.
Ilya is what is colloquially known as a bad communist, but even he can't help but be bemused by the sheer amount of waste around him. All of this space, this luxury, for just one person? There's awe mixed in there for sure, as he gazes around the home hungrily.
This man probably makes a lot of money off people like him.
"The State Department can eat my ass!" the general manager shouts. "Yeah! Go get your boss, I'm not fucking scared."
There is garbling on the other end. On screen, Ilya watches the little boy speak to a very ugly alien. The TV is so high-tech that the details make what could've been a cute animal into a grotesque beast.
He continues to watch the movie for a while. Even though he can understand the English perfectly, he finds he doesn't want to commit the brainpower to do so. He decides to just let himself get lost in the pictures instead. It's not a hard movie to grasp.
"Idiots!" the manager shouts, as he hangs up. Just as he slams the landline down, the phone starts ringing off the hook again, and the general manager curses when he picks it up. "What the fuck do you want?!"
Garbling, the accent this time unmistakably Russian. Ilya focuses harder on the movie, trying to ignore his heartbeat quickly picking up speed.
"As I said to our guys here," the general manager says, slowly, like he's explaining something to someone he thinks is very stupid. "Mr. Rozanov chose to do this. He's left out of his own free will." More garbling. "That's not my understanding of the situation."
The manager sighs, pinches his nose. "No, if you want to talk to him, get me a government official. I'm not letting you Red Army fucks strong arm me here—"
And as if he spoke this person into existence, the call drops, and the house is rewarded with only a minute of silence before the general manager has to pick up the phone again.
"Hello—" He is cut off. The general manager, for once, doesn't throw a fit—just stands and listens.
The manager sighs. Counts to five. He turns to Ilya, who is still pretending to watch E.T. with vested interest. "Mr. Rozanov, the State Department wants to talk to you."
Ilya can hear his heartbeat now thundering in his ears. He still calmly takes the phone from the general manager.
"Hello?" Ilya asks, in English. His voice is coarse—Ilya realizes he hasn't spoken to anyone in the last twenty-four hours.
The man on the line is a high-ranking, bilingual bureaucrat. Ilya knows this because he tells him so when he switches back to Russian. "Ilya," the man says, softly. "Is what that man is saying true?"
"Yes." Ilya replies back in Russian.
There's a long pause on the other end. "When did this happen?"
"I do not have to tell you that." Ilya says, flatly.
"Do you have any intention of coming back to Russia?"
Ilya stares unbrokenly at the TV screen. The alien is lifting the boy and his friends up into the air, the small shadows of their bikes casting harsh, dark lines against the setting afternoon sun. "No," Ilya says. He thinks of what he'd like to say next, and realizes he cannot come up with anything. "Never," he adds.
A longer pause. "You understand how this reflects on your father?" he asks, still in that smooth, professional tone.
"My father," Ilya spits, "is none of your business."
"He will lose his title. You will cost your family everything."
Ilya rolls his eyes, even though the man on the other end cannot appreciate it. Party bureaucrats. Ilya genuinely cannot think of another class of human being more despicable. Other than American capitalists, that is. "That man is a shell," he snaps. On most days, he barely recognizes where he is. "The party will lose nothing."
The man doesn't respond, like he's waiting for Ilya to calm down. Ilya grits his teeth and, against his better judgment, in a moment of weakness, continues to fill the silence. "I applied for a work visa. I am not coming back. I will play hockey for Canada."
"Very well," the man continues. He remains unaffected by Ilya's barbs. "As long as you understand the consequences." He pauses now, for emphasis. "Because Mr. Rozanov, there will be consequences."
The man hangs up. Ilya lowers the phone. The general manager looks inquisitively at Ilya, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Well?"
"I do not think he will call again," Ilya says. He hands the phone wordlessly back to the manager.
"Jesus Christ," the manager mumbles to himself. "That was such a shitshow." He takes a look at Ilya, and claps his hands together. The showboaty salesman persona slaps itself back onto his face. "Well, thank god that's over," he smiles wide, like he's a proud dad about to surprise his child with candy. "What do you think? Time to see your new digs? That'll definitely cheer you up."
"Car." Ilya orders in response. The manager laughs good-naturedly.
"Ah, yes. Car! Car. Don't worry kid. Your car will be waiting for you, too."
The manager fishes around for his car keys, and in doing so looks at the TV. "Man, I fucking love this movie," the general manager says, stopping in his tracks. He sighs happily as the credits scroll down the screen. "It makes me cry like a baby every time," he looks at Ilya. "Too bad the Reds won't let you kids watch stuff like this, huh?"
Ilya stands up and stretches his legs. He thought the movie was okay. It was sad that the alien had to go back to his homeworld. "The party let us watch some American movies," Ilya explains. "Some Like It Hot. The Apartment." Ilya stops, because he's pretty sure that's it.
"Jesus, those are ancient," the manager scoffs. "That's so fucking depressing."
"You are... film guy?" Ilya asks.
The general manager snorts. "No. I'm a sports guy. My friggin' ex-wife, though, she loves movies. Back when we were together, she only let our five-year-old watch E.T., because she thought all the other shit would rot his brain."
"My past girlfriend also really liked movies," Ilya says, easily slipping into a time-honored male bonding ritual of talking about past women in their lives. "She smuggled American films over sometimes. No E.T., though. Too difficult. Too new."
"I have no idea what you guys watch over there," the general manager admits. "I thought all your guys' movies were like about factory workers or whatever."
Ilya tilts his head. "Are you familiar with Soviet montage?" he asks.
The manager scoffs. "What is that? Like a KGB thing?"
Ilya shakes his head. "No. Movie thing. Battleship Potemkin? Have you watched?" The manager looks blankly at him. Ilya sighs. "Okay. How about Psycho? Hitchcock?"
At this, the general manager nods, unsure of where this was going.
"Soviet filmmakers say cuts should be seen," Ilya continues. "They should be… obvious." He spreads his hands out, looking around the general manager's extravagant living room through the makeshift lens of his fingers. He then turns to put the general manager in his frame, an exact center third.
"Popular example—we have an actor, no expression, looking into a camera. Then, boom, you cut to a bowl of soup. Then, boom, you cut back to the man."
Ilya drops his hands. He picks up his jacket from the couch, shoulders his duffle bag. He turns back to face the general manager. "No words said, but viewer thinks man is hungry. You cut to dead woman instead, viewer says man is sad. You cut to woman on a couch, viewer says man feels desire."
He starts heading toward the door. "Russian filmmaking is everywhere," and as he says this, he turns to shoot a smirk at the general manager, who looks baffled. "The West always got its best tricks from us."
****
In all honesty, Ilya could give less of a shit about old movies. He wished Svetlana spent less time trying to smuggle old American movies, and more time helping him get his hands on the Nintendo NES.
The phone call successfully called Ilya's bluff. The bureaucrat tried to threaten his family, which was a dumb idea, because Ilya hated his family. But Ilya saw how these investigations work. How they infected a community like a virus in order to root out the cause of defection.
Ilya knew of this risk when he defected. Which was why he was careful. None of his teammates knew what he was prepared to do. Especially not Svetlana, whom he hadn't heard from in six years now. If the KGB tried to question them, they would genuinely have nothing to offer.
He tried to be as coldhearted as his actions made him out to be. He had to have been a horrible son to abandon his father, especially in the state he was in. He had to have been a horrible teammate to abandon his friends after over ten years of playing together.
But truth was he cared for them all. He didn't love his family, but against all odds, he did care about what happened to them. He loved his teammates. He loved Svetlana.
But he needed to leave Russia more.
Svetlana was the daughter of legendary Moscow hockey player Konstantin Osipov. Ilya had idolized him when he was a kid. However, when he met him, Svetlana's father was bedridden due to a career-ending injury. He rarely spoke, rarely left his room. His daughter spoke enough for both of them however, equally the loud-mouthed asshole her father was back on the ice.
She loved movies more than she loved hockey, which was saying a lot.
When he was fifteen, on the very rare weekends he wasn't training, he would spend long afternoons fucking Svetlana, the two of them laughing as they desperately tried not to be heard by her parents. This was then followed by even longer evenings of Svetlana, pack of smokes in her hand, endlessly explaining tapes she borrowed from the Moscow Film School to a half-asleep Ilya. She would also pepper in one or two American films she managed to smuggle over.
Ilya hoped she was okay.
****
"Well," the general manager says. His words echo in the empty apartment. Ilya's back faces him, as Ilya is finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from the riverview, along with the bustling and prosperous downtown chattering beneath him. "This is where I guess we say goodbye."
The manager tosses Ilya two things. One, the keys to his apartment. Attached to it, an access card for a place called Centaur Ice. It had the team mascot on it on a bright red background. Ilya looks at it, but soon the manager lobs another, much more important set of keys. Ilya catches both but quickly tosses his apartment keys on the floor. He scrabbles to look at the second set of keys, and his face breaks into a smile when he sees it. The Chevrolet logo.
The general manager chuckles at this. "I left a catalogue on the kitchen counter. You should be able to buy most of your furniture there. Since I'm such a nice guy, I made sure you are all set up with a mattress in your bedroom, so you at least have somewhere to sleep. There's also a pretty sweet mall just a couple blocks away if you need new clothes or anything."
"When can I go to the rink?" Ilya asks. He picks the apartment keys back up and throws them long so they land on the kitchen counter. He keeps the car keys clasped tightly in his palm.
"Well, since getting you out of Sweden and into Canada was such a fucking nightmare," the general manager starts, "The team's pre-training workouts are just about wrapping up. But thankfully, due to my fucking ingenuity, we were at least able to get you in before training camp started. You'll meet everyone on Monday."
"So," Ilya says. "Today?"
The general manager frowns. "Uh, today's Sunday."
Ilya looks at him, confused for a second. "No?" he asked. "Monday." While the journey out of Stockholm and out of Europe had been long and trying, Ilya knew time zone calculations—especially to Canada—like the back of his hand.
"You've been on too many planes this week, man," the general manager clicks his teeth. "I swear, it's Sunday."
"You are tricking me," Ilya snaps. He suddenly feels a little paranoid. The empty house doesn't alleviate fears that Ilya might've been pranked or actually kidnapped. "I know how to count."
The general manager sighs. He untucks the newspaper shoved under his armpit, something Ilya saw him pick up before they walked in. "Look."
He sees the date. Sunday.
"You can go out into the hall and check everyone else's newspaper, too. You missed a day kid."
Ilya also sees his name in big bold type. Above the fold is an action shot of him from three years ago, slamming Montreal center Shane Hollander against the boards in the 1986 Super Series. Shane's face isn't visible, but Ilya can recognize that jersey number anywhere.
Defecting Soviet Hockey Player.
Ilya Rozanov.
He beat Hollander in that game. It was also the last game they ever played against each other.
"Look," the general manager says, "It's been a very long few weeks, yes? I'm exhausted. I'm sure you are exhausted."
"You are not actually kidnapping me, correct?" Ilya says, just to be annoying.
"I am not kidnapping you. Your team is very excited to meet you. Tomorrow. Monday." The general manager reaches his hand over, as if hesitating. He then pats him awkwardly two times on the back. Ilya tries not to cringe. "Until then, get some rest, yeah? Do you uh," he gestures loosely. "Do you observe?"
"Observe?" Ilya asks, confused.
The general manager cuts Ilya a sidelong glance. "You guys don't practice that kind of thing do you? Religion? Opiate of the masses and all that?"
Ilya's crucifix chain feels cold against his skin. "My mom was religious," Ilya says, and he doesn't elaborate further.
"Okay, well, god bless her. Anyway, the arena will be completely abandoned today, given that it's Christ's day of rest and all that. If you really wanted to take a look around, no one's going to stop you." The general manager gives him an apprehensive look. He taps at the newspaper clutched in Ilya's left hand. "Just you know. Be careful."
"Thank you," Ilya says. He finds that he means it. He puts the newspaper down. He gets up, and sticks his hand out. "For everything."
The general manager smiles. He grabs his hand, and gives it a hearty shake. North Americans are always so friendly. "We are really happy to have you Mr. Rozanov. Please, if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to reach out."
Ilya agrees, and after they've said their goodbyes, Ilya's shepherd into the dark heart of the west—Ottawa, Canada—turns around and heads out.
Just like that, Ilya's alone.
He looks at his car keys, and a wild grin breaks out across his face.
It's time to go for a drive.
****
Shane knows he's not supposed to be practicing today. He tries to make up for it by taking it easy on his legs, skating loosely around the ice without any weights.
Rest days were never easy for Shane. If he is not playing hockey, his brain drives him insane. It pushes him to do other stuff. Like running until he passes out. Lifting until he passes out. Crunching until he passes out.
None of which exactly gives his muscles the break they need.
So Shane decides to walk through his plays.
One. Shane counts in his head, as he moves his balance to the right in a wide base position, repeatedly swiping an imaginary puck from an imaginary opponent.
Two. He switches left, the motion natural and fluid as his club follows him easily in the opposite direction.
Three. Back on his right skate again, and like clockwork, he feels like he's starting to hear it. Players, slamming against each other. The noise of the arena. It only makes his skating pick up pace, almost against his will. One two three—Shane swings, shooting an imaginary goal. One two three—he sees a player bigger than him head his way. Shane changes his leg over, expertly weaving past them before they get a chance to check them, as he touches his hand quickly on the ice.
He lets the momentum from his skate propel him across the ice until he hits the boards. He sighs and pulls his tiny spiral notebook out from his back pocket. He quickly starts crossing out old positions, directing arrows to better areas of the ice.
He stares at his notebook. Everything looks like gibberish. Shane tries not to let his frustration overwhelm him. Everything is so fucking pointless.
He needs to continue skating.
And even though he keeps warning himself against it, his body, as if betraying his brain, starts picking up speed. His legs easily move their balance from one side to another, gliding him across the ice, and the cold air rushes against his cheeks, making his heart thump joyously with adrenaline. A smile breaks across his face, as he swerves around the rink, pulling into a backwards position as his skates immediately find their equilibrium, skating him along the right side of the ice, impossibly fast until—
Shane slams himself against the boards. He yanks his helmet off, as if that would help him smell better.
He narrows his eyes. There's a figure at the very top of the bleachers. Shane can't quite get a good enough look to see who it is. But one thing he knows for sure, because he absolutely cannot stand the smell.
Someone's smoking.
"Hey!" Shane yells, on the top of his lungs. He skates closer to the edge of the ice, facing the bleachers. "Hey!"
The figure doesn't respond. Shane tries again. "You can't smoke in here!"
Technically, Shane's incorrect. Smoking is normalized and highly encouraged in most sports arenas—to Shane's dismay. Once, Shane had a coach who tried to ban smoking in the locker rooms, and players just smoked in the hallways instead. Shane could never escape it, so the few times he can, he tries very hard to keep it that way.
Sunday is his one day he gets to have the entire rink to himself, undisturbed. And now, even that's taken away from him.
Some motherfucker had the audacity to disturb his peace.
"Hey! Can you hear me?!" Shane shouts again, reaching the edge of the ice. "Put that out or go outside!"
Now that Shane's gotten closer, he narrows his eyes again. His entire body goes cold when he realizes he cannot believe what he is seeing.
Ilya. Fucking. Rozanov.
Wearing a hoodie and a red "Welcome to Canada!" baseball cap that he clearly got at an airport.
Standing on the top bleacher, smoking nonchalantly as he lords over Shane on the ice.
Jesus fucking Christ.
"I see no sign," Rozanov says, finally, "telling me I am breaking any rules."
Shane's stunned into silence. Rozanov decides to take this opportunity to continue talking.
"I have never been to a hockey rink I cannot smoke in. Is Ottawa special?" Smoke escapes from Rozanov's nostrils. "I may have to go back to Russia, if so."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Shane repeats, this time out loud. He stands there, awestruck. "You motherfucker. Are you a wizard?"
Rozanov frowns. "Wizard? Like Rasputin?"
"Yeah," Shane huffs, even though he doesn't know what he is talking about. He usually wouldn't greet a new teammate like this, but they usually weren't Ilya Rozanov. "Like Rasputin. A teleporting Rasputin. Just last week, I saw you on TV, playing hockey halfway across the globe. The next second, I hear you've defected from the Soviet Union, and then not only that, I see you landed in Ottawa International."
Shane takes a deep breath and finds he has the momentum to keep ranting. "And now, not even two days later… tah-dah! Here you are!" Shane laughs hysterically. "You are actually fucking unreal. None of this makes sense unless you can literally teleport."
Rozanov doesn't respond. He just keeps standing there, so high up from Shane, smoking disaffectedly.
"Don't just stand there," Shane snaps. "Answer me. You look scary."
"You suggest I know magic," Rozanov says, smiling now. Like he's trying not to laugh. "Because I am Russian?"
"No," Shane insists, not even sure what they were talking about anymore, just that he needs to make Rozanov feel as stupid as he's making him feel. "I'm saying you know magic because you… you're insane!"
Rozanov sighs. "Imagine me," he says, sadly. "I am very scared—new country, you know? And to feel better, I come to my happy place, hockey, my one normal," he actually looks distraught now, to Shane's disbelief. "Only to find my captain. Calling me names. Calling me a witch, calling me Rasputin—"
"I did not say that!" Shane shouts. In the empty arena, it almost echoes, so Shane forces himself to control his volume. "I did not say that. And stop—stop talking," he orders, before Rozanov can derail the conversation further. "This is so not the point! How long have you been standing there?" Shane demands. "The rink is closed, you're not supposed to be here until Monday."
"I am on this team now, Hollander," Rozanov challenges. "So actually, I can be here whenever I want." He takes another drag, really taking the time to let the smoke filter around them before answering. Shane tries very hard not to cough. "Also, thirty minutes—"
Shane gapes. "Thirty minutes—?!"
"That is how long I have been watching," he says, casually. "After watching for a long time, I light a smoke. And now," he gestures vaguely in both of their directions. "Here we are."
To Shane's horror, he realizes blood is starting to rush to his face. "That—" he cringes at how he must've looked on the ice. Spinning around, swinging past imaginary opponents, talking to himself as he works through positioning. He probably looked like such a tryhard. "You weren't supposed to see that."
Rozanov shrugs. "I liked watching you skate," he says, matter-of-factly. "You always moved beautiful on the ice."
Yeah, now Shane's definitely blushing. "I—" Shane stammers, disarmed. He guesses the polite thing to do would be to thank Rozanov for the compliment. Too bad Shane doesn't feel particularly polite at the moment.
He also doesn't feel like practicing anymore. He walks off the ice, sits on the bench. He turns his back to Rozanov, trying to regain some of his equilibrium. "I didn't mean to be rude. I was just surprised," he sighs, resigned. "I was supposed to meet you Monday," he repeats, as he kicks his skates off and pulls his sneakers on.
Rozanov's quiet for a while, and instead of taking solace in the silence, Shane finds himself tensing up, like he's preparing to take a punch.
"I do not want you to stop practicing," Rozanov says, bluntly. "If I am bothering you, you should have said so. I would have left."
Shane laughs sharply. "You didn't put out your cigarette when I asked you to. Why would I expect you'd listen to anything I have to say?"
"With cigarettes, you say I am not allowed, which is not true. You did not tell me that it was bothering you." Rozanov explains, and of course, coming out of his mouth, he sounds perfectly reasonable, while Shane sounds crazy.
"Okay, well—" Shane's getting worked up again, and against his better judgement, he whirls around. All of a sudden, Rozanov has, again, teleported behind him, sitting on the bench right above him. So when Shane turns around, he's unexpectedly close to Ilya, crouching in a squat. "God! Stop doing that!"
"Stop doing what?"
"Teleporting!" Shane yells. "And yes! It does bother me! Cigarette smoke gives me migraines, and it pisses me off that everyone in this league is so fucking addicted to them—"
"Okay," Rozanov says, simply. "I'll put it out then." He moves to throw the butt on the ground.
"Are you kidding me?!" Shane shouts again.
"What!" Rozanov says, voice starting to rise as well. He sounds frustrated. The swoop of pleasure that gives Shane is worrying, to say the least. "Both things I do you get angry. What is correct? What will make you happy?" Rozanov snaps. "Tell me."
Shane looks at the cigarette butt burning in Rozanov's hand, feeling outside of his body. To get his attention, Rozanov snaps his fingers in front of Shane's face. "Hello?" he calls.
"You should put it out outside," Shane says, distantly.
"Okay, fine." Rozanov snaps. He stands up, shoves the cigarette back into his mouth. "I'm leaving. See you Monday, Hollander."
"No I—" Shane reaches out, grabbing Rozanov's wrist with his right hand. Rozanov looks startled. It's a good look on him. Shane doesn't know what to say, just that he doesn't know how it happened again. Him starting on the wrong foot with yet another teammate. Even though Rozanov makes it very easy to hate him. Shane doesn't need to—he doesn't need to always push so hard—
"Have you been to the mall yet?" The words tumble out of his mouth, against his will. "Or, has anyone shown you around?"
Rozanov tilts his head, looking at Shane curiously. "No," he pauses. "You offering?"
Shane guesses he is. "Just for today," Shane says, quickly. "Because it's a rest day."
Rozanov gestures at Shane. "You are not resting." He smirks. "Is bad for muscles."
Jesus, give this guy an inch… "Do not lecture me about physical fitness, I know what I am doing," Shane snaps. "I'm agreeing to show you around today, and today only. Every other day you spend in our great city, you are on your own."
Rozanov smiles wide. It still manages to make him look disingenuous and conniving. "Right now?"
"No, I need to shower."
"I can wait."
"No," Shane insists, loudly, blushing. Shane absolutely does not want Rozanov just waiting around while he showers. Shane knows this bodes very poorly for when he has to share a locker room with the guy for the rest of the season. "Like, later."
"It's already evening," Rozanov fires back. "How much later are you thinking?" He smiles, innocently. "Going to show me somewhere fun?"
"Look," Shane says. "I don't live that far from here. I just need thirty minutes to shower and change." Shane smiles. "Let's meet at the mall. It'll be fun. It'll be like a cute, capitalist field trip, acclimating you to your new economic reality."
"No," Rozanov disagrees. He pulls the cigarette back out of his mouth, stabbing it in Shane's direction. "I will pick you up."
Shane rolls his eyes. "No."
"I want to show off my new car." Rozanov insists. Shane tries to protest, but Rozanov cuts him off.
"I am picking you up in an hour," Rozanov says, final. "You take me to your 'mall,' and you will show me around."
Not wanting to be outgunned, Shane matches Rozanov's smirk with his own.
"Okay, fine," Shane says. He pulls out his spiral-bound notebook. He writes his address on it. He stands up, tilting his head in challenge to Rozanov. He hands him the paper. "It's a date."
Rozanov frowns. Shane watches him to see if this made him uncomfortable. Shane usually can gain the upper hand on most of the hockey players in the league by making them feel unmasculine, or, god forbid, gay. It's not a tactic he uses often, but Shane really, really wants to see Rozanov squirm.
Instead, Rozanov shoots him a real smile this time, not hiding behind any mirth or boredom. It lights his entire face up.
"You will love my new car," Rozanov says, happily. "Is a Chevrolet Camaro." And at that, he turns around and leaves.