Chapter Text
Wednesday practice had just wrapped, and the locker room was loud. Players crowded the narrow aisles between stalls, peeling off gear, shoving pads into bags, talking over one another without really listening. No one really even talked about practice, especially a practice like the one they had just had. Easy, nothing revolutionary. The type of practice that makes their job feel like a job.The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and disinfectant, the kind of smell that clung no matter how often the room was cleaned (and it was cleaned a lot).
Ilya sat at his locker and worked through the routine without thinking much about it. Skates off. Pads loosened. Jersey tossed aside. His body felt used in the familiar way, muscles tired but familiar, the edge of adrenaline already fading. Around him, practice broke apart into smaller conversations - laughter, complaints, arguments about nothing. It was the usual noise after a long skate, the space between being done for the day and whatever came next.
The locker room doors opened, unnoticed at first. Coach LeClaire stepped inside and paused just long enough to take in the room before moving forward. The noise didn’t stop so much as thin out, a few conversations trailing off as people realized he was there. Most of the team kept packing up, only half-listening, waiting to see whether he actually needed their attention or was just passing through. Ilya mostly ignored his presence, LeClaire had a habit of spilling english phrases that didn’t actually mean anything.
Keep up the momentum. Keep pushing.
All words that went nowhere.
“As you all know,” LeClaire began, his voice loud, “Kelly stepped down as our team physical therapist a few weeks ago.”
Ilya looked up uninterested. He already knew where this was going. They all knew they would be getting a new PT soon. The old woman was good at her job but also very old. She was more than halfway to retirement before Ilya joined the team.
“As of today,” the coach continued, stepping aside, “Mr. Hollander here will be our new team physical therapist. Same setup as before, available after practices and games, traveling with the team. I expect you all to treat him with respect.” LeClaire clapped his hands once and moved back, revealing the man who’d been hovering quietly behind him. He stepped forward, posture straight, dark hair falling neatly into place.
“I look forward to working with you all,” he said, voice soft and almost flat. “Please don’t hesitate to ask if you need help with anything.”
Ilya’s gaze lingered longer than he meant it to. He was young, probably close to his age. Sharp in a way that had nothing to do with muscle. Definitely more pleasant to look at than Kelly. Their eyes met for a moment, a second too long before the newcomer flicked a glance toward the coach, clearly waiting for some cue that he’d done enough talking. When the silence stretched just a second too long, he cleared his throat.
“I should get back to it, then,” he mumbled, the words barely audible, before turning and making a swift, efficient retreat out of the locker room.
“Good practice today,” LeClaire said, already reclaiming the space. “With the game tomorrow, I expect everyone to keep up the momentum.”
The same vague encouragement as always. So many wasted English words Ilya was forced to translate, only to find they meant nothing at all. When the coach finally left, the locker room noise quickly surged back to life like LeClaire hadn't even entered at all. Laughter, shouting, and bickering resumed. The news of a new PT barely registered - just another background detail in a season already crowded with them.
Ilya turned back to the more immediate problem at hand - trying to force an unreasonable amount of hockey gear into a single duffel bag. On game nights, the equipment staff handled everything. For practices, though, they were on their own, left to wrestle damp pads and tangled straps into much too small spaces.
“Rozy!”
The shout cut cleanly through his thoughts as a hand came down hard on his shoulder in greeting. Ilya turned his head to find Cliff Marleau grinning at him, already far too energetic for someone who had just come off practice.
“So,” Marleau said, leaning in, “I was thinking - since we don’t have a game until tomorrow night - maybe you wanna come out with me and a few of the boys? Hit a club or something. Not often we get a free night at home.”
Ilya’s eyes drifted past Marleau to his locker. Empty. Every piece of gear already stuffed away, his duffel bulging obscenely and barely zipped, abandoned against the wooden cubby like it might explode if disturbed.
“This is only reason you want to go party?” Ilya asked dryly. “No rushing for anything else?” He nodded toward the bag.
Marleau scoffed. “Rozy, we just got back from a six-day road trip. That’s like… a million nights.”
“Is six nights,” Ilya replied without looking up, his attention fixed on shoving a stubborn glove into the front pocket of his bag. “You just said this.”
“Okay, whatever,” Marleau said, throwing his hands up. “I’ve been sharing hotel rooms with you, and we’ve been running around nonstop. So yes - maybe the idea of going to a club and getting laid is really fucking appealing right now.” He said it plainly, unapologetic, like it should’ve been obvious all along. But getting laid usually was always the obvious choice for Marleau.
“Is too early to go to club” Ilya grumbled, shoving his phone into Marleau's face. He was right, it was only around 4 pm. “It’s four p.m.,” Ilya scoffed. “What do you want to do, help them set up lights?”
Marleau laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “Rozy, it’s called getting a head start! More time to drink, more time to dance, more time to score - if you know what I mean.”
Ilya simply rolled his eyes, finally managing to get the last of his gear into his bag. He really didn’t feel like sitting in an empty club with Marleau, especially not on one of his only nights off. They leave on another road trip in only a few days. This wasn’t to say Ilya didn’t want to get laid - he was only human. But Marleau was a loud drunk who attracted trouble and Ilya really didn’t feel like playing babysitter tonight.
“Look, you go. If party turns good, maybe I come.” Ilya shrugged, needing an excuse to get out of the begging that he knew Marleau was about to do. “I have to go see new PT, back is sore again” He spoke with an exaggerated look of pain, dismissively waving his hand, hoping it would be enough to get Marleau off his back.
Marleau threw his hands up in exaggerated defeat, shaking his head with a grin. “Fine, fine. Do what you gotta do man. But I swear if I find out you went out anyway to some weird Russian club without me, I’ll put itching powder in your gloves”. He sauntered away, already trying to drag some of the rookies into coming out to the club with him. Marleau was an idiot, but he was also one of Ilya's best friends.
Неужели я настолько легко заменяем? Ilya thought with a shake of his head.
Ilya had very little intention of actually seeing the new PT. His back felt fine, well, as fine as a professional athlete's back could feel - and once Marleau and whatever hapless recruits he’d dragged along finally left, he’d head back to his apartment to figure out what he actually wanted to do with his night off. For now, he pretended to be sorting through his duffel bag, hoping the coast would clear.
Not that it ever seemed to be that simple.
“Oh! New guy - Hollander, right?” Marleau’s voice cut through the air. Ilya’s head shot up, immediately spotting his well-meaning but infuriating friend striding toward the confused PT, who clearly hadn’t expected to be caught in the middle of anything.
“Rozanov’s back’s acting up. Can you help him out? I need him ready to come to the club tonight,” Marleau pleaded, eyes wide and helpless.
Ilya groaned silently. Of course.
Боже, зачем ты это делаешь со мной?
“Uh, yeah, of course. I just need to speak to Coach LeClaire quickly, but then I can help,” Hollander said, nodding once. His gaze shifted to Ilya, and their eyes met again. “If you want, you can wait in the training room- I’ll be there in a moment, Mr. Rozanov.”
Ilya simply nodded, biting back the displeased look threatening to spread across his face at his own foiled plans. He left his bag on his locker and headed down the hall towards the training room. He wasn’t one to visit the PT much, Kelly was good at her job and he had needed her assistance a handful of times - but Ilya much preferred to fix mild muscle problems with a night's sleep, a glass of vodka and the mental decision to just ignore the pain. He briefly considered strolling straight out of the rink and heading to his apartment, leaving his gear to be collected another time. But he knew that wasn’t really an option.
He strolled into the training room - although Ilya still didn’t understand why they called it that. No real training happened here, it was a room for PTs to fix broken players, that was all. It was the only room in the entire rink that smelled sharper than the locker room, more like disinfectant than sweat, and the rows of treatment tables and racks of rehab equipment crowded the walls instead of lockers and hockey gear. All of Kelly's photos of her husband and grandchildren had been removed, the small desk with a computer and a rolling chair tucked in front of it felt bare. Ilya strolled over, looking at the only photo remaining. It was of the new PT, with two older people who he assumed were his parents, one an older white man and the other an asian woman. He glanced toward the door before picking up the photo. Not that he actually cared about Hollander’s personal life, he had exactly zero interest in his teammates’ family, let alone a random physical therapist. But he had to admit, the guy was… easy on the eyes. Smooth, neat, annoyingly competent-looking - a boring type of handsome that Ilya begrudgingly appreciated.
“Mr. Rozanov?” Hollander’s monotone voice cut through the room, and Ilya knew, with irritating clarity, that his night off was not going to start anytime soon.
~