Chapter Text
It is nice outside when Shane Hollander meets Ilya Rozanov for the second time.
Mount Ridge campus is brightened by students clad in flimsy colorful sweaters, a shoddy effort to combat the chill in the air. Burnt orange maple leaves decorate the pavements, and Shane Hollander— well, he is in his Coach’s stuffy office, standing next to none other than Ilya Rozanov.
Coach Gilbert taps a finger on his old shaky desk, snapping Shane back to the present. “Did you get any of that?” He asks.
“Uh… yeah. Rozanov’s on a hockey scholarship and is my roommate." Shane grumbles.
“Be nice, Hollander. Show him around the rink and then to your apartment and don’t be late for practice tomorrow.”
Why me? Shane wants to know. There are tons of seniors who would do a better job of familiarizing Rozanov with Mount Ridge hockey culture. Shane himself has only been here for a year! Nonetheless, he puts on his good Canadian boy smile. “Yes, Coach.”
They walk in silence for the most part. Shane in front and Ilya trailing behind him. The back of Shane’s neck prickles with an intense gaze but he doesn’t give in to instinct. His head stays stiff on his neck as he ushers Rozanov through the arena and then to the locker room. He stands aside and tries not to glare as the Russian leisurely takes it all in, turning the equipment between his fingers with a hint of disapproval.
It takes a lot of self-discipline to contain Shane’s anger. Of course, Ilya Rozanov thinks he’s above the gear provided here. Why didn’t he stay back in Russia then?
Shane carries this nasty, foreign but familiar, feeling with him to the apartment. He lives in an on-campus complex reserved for athletes. It consists of three adjoining buildings, each containing over a dozen apartments, and each apartment shared by two sportsmen.
Rozanov’s eagle eyes are more smothering as the lock clicks behind them in their apartment. Shane fingers the collar of his shirt as if that would make him breathe easier. It only invites Rozanov’s gaze to his neck.
“Uhm,” Shane clears his throat and gestures vaguely at their surroundings. Their apartment is a two-bedroom space with en-suite bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room furnished with a large three-seater couch, a bookshelf, and a television. The living room is sparsely decorated, very much to Shane’s taste.
Rozanov’s eyes twitch when Shane faces him again. Deep cerulean eyes roam Shane’s face, like he’s committing every curve and slope to memory. Shane rips his gaze away, heart thumping. One thumb pulls his collar again while the other fits safely into his pants pocket.
“This is everything.” He swallows, eager to escape this hell. “Your room is the other way.” Shane nods to the door across the room from his own. He pauses for the Russian to say something but he remains silent, gaze burning into the side of Shane’s face.
It is obvious what Rozanov is doing. Shane is not new to the whole stare the opponent down to assert dominance gimmick. He has been playing hockey for ten years now and has grown immune to displays like this— or so he thought. Rozanov bothers him more than he should. He is like a tick underneath Shane’s skin, sucking on his composure one stare at a time.
Shane finishes the tour with a set of house rules and anything else he thought Rozanov should know like how the kitchen faucet has to be turned more to the left for better water pressure. “If you have any rules yourself, I'd like to hear them. Or maybe if you think my rules are too strict, we can find a middle ground.”
Rozanov stares for a while saying nothing. Then just when Shane thinks he’s about to get the infamous silent treatment again, Rozanov throws his right hand carelessly toward Shane’s face.
“Your uhm— freckles. I looked up name in English. Very pretty.” Then he turns and disappears into his room, leaving Shane reeling moments after he’s gone.
**
Rozanov quickly becomes a celebrity. Just three weeks in, he found himself a community of other Russian speakers. When he’s not at practice, shooting another outrageously flashy ad, or sleeping in his room, he is with them, being loud and obnoxious.
He is inescapable. Shane battles for center spot with him on the ice and goes home to his face again. He hears about Rozanov in the canteen and at the gym, because all Hayden does is gripe about him. His current topic of complaint is Rozanov’s flashy red Lamborghini. Rose, his best friend, always has new stories to tell about Ilya Rozanov, playboy extraordinaire who drives her roommate, Svetlana around in the aforementioned car.
Shane hates the car. Hates how loud and colorful it is. Hates that Rozanov takes jabs at his jeep.
“Hollander, you leave boring car today. I will drive you to practice.”
“It’s a normal car and I’m not getting in that thing!”
He hates that he can’t have anything for himself without Rozanov’s interference. And he hates that he seems to be the only one unnerved by this. While he tries his hardest to avoid Rozanov, the boy actively seeks him out. Every day after practice, Rozanov approaches him with varying offers, depending on the time of the day.
“Want to eat lunch together?” He would ask after morning practice.
“Yeah no thanks, Rozanov.”
After evening practice, he’d come in with his favorite line. “Hollander, you are hungry? Dinner is on me today. If you want.” This is almost always accompanied by a nonchalant shrug to which Shane replies, “I don’t want.”
When they don’t have practice, he’d barge into Shane’s room. “You are free today, yes? No class, no boring commercial shoot.”
“How do you even know my schedule?”
“We order some food. Watch boring TV, maybe play video game?”
“My answer is still no, Rozanov.”
Shane starts locking his bedroom door after that.
One time, it was, “I found a pizza place with Sasha last week. Maybe we go together on weekend?”
Shane’s stomach twisted like it always did when any name from Rozanov’s Russian community came up. “Stop messing with me, Rozanov. It’s not funny anymore!”
Today, Rozanov finds Shane again, long after their teammates have cleared out of the locker room. Rozanov’s hair is still damp from the showers, his back pressed against a row of lockers. His hands are buried in the pockets of his red and blue bomber jacket and his right knee is bouncing. The motion is distracting but Shane ignores it and the entire human, focusing instead on pulling on his sneakers.
“Go out with me.” Rozanov’s voice comes out whiny which prompts Shane to glare up at him. He does not have time for games today. “Just one time, Hollander.”
“I’ve got an assignment due on Monday.”
Roazanov groans. “Ughhh you are so boring. Is Wednesday, you can do stupid assignment later.”
Shane fastens the last knot on his shoelace and pulls himself up from the bench, stopping three inches below Rozanov. “Some of us care about school.”
“Why?” He seems genuinely baffled by Shane’s dedication to school.
Shane frowns. Sputters. “Why!? Are you serious right now?”
“You are second best hockey player, Hollander.” Shane rolls his eyes but lets him continue. “You do not need school.”
“What happens if I get a career-ending injury?”
“No no. I will not allow that. I will protect you.” His voice drops to a whisper, “Hollander.”
Shane suddenly becomes aware of how close they are standing. “Hmm?”
“Come out with me. Just dinner.”
Shane swallows. His pulse spikes. Fuck. “What about your Russian friends?” He shifts from one foot to the other, biting the insides of his upper lip. “What about Sasha or— or Svetlana?”
“What about them? I want to eat with you.”
Shane scoffs and looks away, only to hide his blush. He takes a step back for good measure. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll eat with you.”
Rozanov’s smile is the widest Shane has ever seen it.
**
Dinner with Rozanov involves 20% eating and 80% shameless staring. Shane ignores it most of the time. He’s used to the staring. Used to hating it. Halfway through eating, Rozanov starts asking personal questions. Shane dodges them the first few times. Rozanov is persistent. He demands in a way that doubles as pleading until Shane breaks.
Shane’s answers are long and detailed. Once he opens his mouth, there’s no stopping. He blabbers about his hometown Ottawa and his dreams of building a cottage there someday. He raves about his love for tea. He drinks chamomile tea every morning for its calming effect. It sets a good precedent for the rest of the day. He talks about hockey books. His macrobiotic diet. Yoga. His parents. Rozanov listens attentively as though Shane were the most interesting person in the world.
“What about you?” Shane asks, sipping on his ginger ale. “How is Russia?” Why are you here? Just to torment me?
“Russia is Russia.” Rozanov lifts and drops his shoulders.
“What does that mean?”
“Too many questions, Hollander. Finish your salad.”
Social cues are hard to pick up on sometimes. But Rozanov’s message is too direct to be misinterpreted. He does not want to talk to Shane. Shane feels foolish for opening up the way he did. Rozanov coaxed his entire life history out of him but can’t give a straight answer to one stupid question? He would answer with alacrity if his Russian friends asked. He is more talkative around them. More animated.
All Shane gets is an immovable wall that stares at him all day and messes with his head.
Rozanov drives them back to the apartment in his little death trap. Shane does not speak. He has said enough. Rozanov stays silent too but when is he not? The silence is louder as they take the stairs to the 4th floor, fluorescent tubes buzzing to life with each turn.
By the time they are on their floor, Shane is close to fraying into a billion pieces. A cold unsettling feeling washes over him. He convinces himself that this sense of unease has nothing to do with Rozanov’s dismissal. That it is certainly not because he can’t let go of what happened two years ago at the World Junior Ice Hockey Championships.
Shane had heard so much about Ilya Rozanov, the other young hockey prospect from good old Russia. He’d watched all of Rozanov’s games and was pretty excited to meet someone he believed could be a formidable opponent.
He’d found Rozanov lighting a cigarette outside after fervently looking for him. He introduced himself, buzzing with nerves only to be met with silence. Shane tried to save the conversation with an awkward ramble about the weather and the rooming conditions before trudging back to his hotel room in shame.
As if that wasn’t enough, Russia went home with the Gold.
Shane recalls the shame he felt that day. How he stayed up staring at the ceiling, groaning and wishing he could go back in time and stop the whole thing from happening. He recalls the resentment that followed. Mighty and searing. The warmth in his belly whenever Rozanov crossed his mind. The vow to beat him one day.
He thinks back to his frustration when he came second in the draft pick after the one person he hated. When he closes his eyes, he can still see Rozanov, curly hair tamed and eyes strikingly blue, looking down at him from the balcony like a king to his subject, like he was better than Shane.
He remembers his relief when he learned that Rozanov, like himself, despite getting drafted, had chosen to play college hockey in Russia before joining the major league after graduation. That would make them equals when they met again. That would make beating Rozanov sweeter.
What he did not expect was finding Ilya Rozanov, the man who plagued his nightmares and his waking moments, in Coach’s office. He was supposed to defeat Rozanov, not play on the same team with him. And Rozanov most definitely was not supposed to get under his skin like this.
Now in their apartment, Shane nods politely at his roommate after toeing off his outside shoes at the entrance. That was one of his house rules and Rozanov has abided quite faithfully. “Thanks for today. You didn’t have to pay but thanks.”
Rozanov waves him off. “No problem. Is normal to pay.”
“Okay. I’ll just.” He sticks his thumb toward his door.
“Okay, enjoy boring assignment, Hollander.” Rozanov doesn’t move to turn away. He holds Shane’s gaze for a bit and then takes a step back. Shane watches him face his door for less than two seconds before spinning around. “So uh—,”
“What?”
“How did you like the food? Was ginger ale cold enough? Did you like first date?”
Shane feels his frown dissolve and then a laugh leaves his lips unbidden. Ilya Rozanov raises his blood pressure and makes him laugh concurrently. “Sure. The food was good. And the ginger ale was cold.”
“And date?” His smile is disarming.
Shane rolls his eyes. He doesn’t remember why he was so upset before. “Sure man, the date was nice too.”