Chapter Text
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
December 2008
Regina, Saskatchewan
Their training session was over. Every part of Ilya hurt. Well, not every part—mostly his thighs and glutes but otherwise he was feeling peachy. Sort of. Okay, he was dead tired, if he was being honest with himself.
His hand reached for the pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his sweatpants. A cigarette in his mouth; the flick of the lighter. He felt the nicotine hit his lungs and the menthol on his tongue, thinking about how he’d have to go back to Russia soon. Ilya didn’t understand why, but something made it hard to breathe when he thought about the Moscow apartment. When he thought about his father. About his brother.
He knew it was wrong. He had always known, but that didn’t kill the dying hope that things might change. That Alexei would treat him differently. That dad—father—would praise him more. Would value him more.
Ilya smiled bitterly, realizing it was all just dreams and fantasies. A sweet lie he wished was his reality—but it was absolutely impossible.
His throat tickled and he coughed. His head was spinning from the massive amount of nicotine—his third cigarette already—and the single banana that had been his breakfast. Ilya practically leaned against the white wall. He didn’t give a damn if he dirtied his hoodie. Huh.
He didn’t give a damn.
It was cold; sometimes Ilya was still fooled by the proximity to the warm USA and dressed lighter than the weather allowed. Saskatchewan was icy. His hands were already trembling slightly from the cold. Probably should have worn a jacket.
But.
He didn’t give a single flying fuck.
He rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily, pressing on the bridge of his nose.
The International Prospect Cup was approaching, exciting him but also scaring him at the same time. If he lost…
He heard a loud chuckle behind him.
Ilya froze. And turned.
Oh. Oh. It was—
Shane Hollander stood there, fully dressed in warm clothes—probably feeling nice and toasty—with a smirk on his face. His raven-black hair was slightly disheveled, his brown eyes boring a hole right through him. Ilya lowered his gaze, took a drag, and swallowed the bitter saliva.
"You know, smoking is bad for you."
Oh. No fucking way, smartass.
Ilya felt kind of uncomfortable. Under such scrutiny. Uncomfortable with the presence of… such a handsome guy. There was a mocking tone in Hollander’s voice that matched his smile. Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t freezing anymore.
"Yes. Got it."
Ilya flicked the ash and started studying the Canadian’s jacket. Blue suited him. Hollander was a bit shorter than him, but definitely not weaker. He shoved players, took hits himself, and provoked everyone he could. Well, according to the rumors.
Despite everything he’d been feeling lately, with all the expectations on his shoulders, Ilya had always been interested in playing against Hollander. The older he got, the more often he heard that last name. He’d felt this involuntary interest for a long time, but only now, standing in front of him and blushing a little under the intense stare, did Ilya realize that—
"Shane Hollander."
A hand was extended to him.
Ilya reflexively took in his face, covered in freckles, his dark eyebrows and lashes, and his perfect skin.
Okay.
The handshake was borderline painful, the guy was squeezing his hand so fucking hard. Ilya didn’t let it show, forcing a smile. He was used to pain. It was an old friend of his.
"Ilya Rozanov."
"I know, Rozanov."
Hollander emphasized his last name, as if implying something. Ilya didn’t get it, as usual.
Shane held his hand for too long, looking him straight in the eyes, which was incredibly embarrassing. His voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it definitely had a commanding quality. That future captain’s voice. A winner’s voice.
Their hands unclasped simultaneously.
Ilya immediately felt cold again.
Hollander was still burning a hole through him, his gaze not wavering for a second. Ilya swallowed. The only other person who ever paid him such intense attention was—
His heart beat faster. He latched onto the blurred silhouette of the Canadian to avoid thinking about him. Hollander was well-built. He was—
"Wait ’til we beat you, Rozanov."
Jeez, what a jerk.
"No, you won't." Was all Ilya managed to squeeze out. He didn’t have the energy for arguments. By the time of the game, he’d stop moping around and start sleeping properly. Eating properly.
He knew he would win because he had no right to lose. Because sometimes life doesn’t give you another choice.
When Hollander disappeared around the corner, Ilya started rubbing his face so hard his palms burned.
He felt shame.
Shame, because he liked the guy and he couldn’t evict these thoughts from his mind.
He wasn’t flirting with him, right? Right? Just saying hello?
Ilya didn’t know.
When, after another cigarette, he finally went back to his hotel room and looked in the mirror, there was a flush on his face. That specific one he knew—the one that appeared because of the boy’s searing gaze. That specific one the boy had definitely noticed.
Fuck.
Later that same evening, he jerked off, thinking about that dark gaze. It felt inescapable. Absolute. Something he would dream about and wake up in a cold sweat.
Ilya wasn’t a very sociable guy. He won through speed and strategy. He was accustomed to isolation, to silence. The language barrier made it hard to connect with the other guys, but… this boy made him remember the past. Remember what had happened back in Russia. Ilya could only hope he would forget this encounter as quickly as his pucks flew into the net.