Chapter Text
chapter one
The entire team nearly jumps out of their skin as Harris storms into the locker room with wild, angry eyes. He stomps right past where his boyfriend is sat on a bench, even as Troy reaches out for him with a questioning, concerned furrow to his brow, Harris does not falter.
Ilya has to fight the urge to shy away when he realizes Harris’s trajectory. He hopes his flinch isn’t obvious as the relentlessly upbeat and optimistic social media manager glares daggers at him. Harris stops right in front of Ilya, and jabs a finger at his naked chest.
It hurts. Ilya will never tell.
“Alright, captain- you fucking handle him. I give up!” Harris hisses, his round cheeks flushed with frustration.
Ilya’s brow furrows in confusion for just a moment, before, unfortunately, realization washes over him, and he groans.
“Something wrong?” Shane inquires from a few stalls down. He slips a clean shirt over his freshly-showered torso as he walks over to join Ilya and Harris. Shane looks between the two questioningly.
“I assume, ‘something wrong’ is rookie,” Ilya drones, eyes rolling upwards in resignment. “I do not know anyone else capable of pissing off sweetest man on planet.” Ilya sighs, levels Harris with an apologetic look. “What is problem now?”
Harris threads his fingers through his own hair and tugs, eyes bugging out with frustration as he says through gritted teeth, “I need literally ten seconds- just ten seconds- of usable material for our socials. He’s playing in his first real game tomorrow, and the asshole has been trending ever since the internet saw his stupid, annoying cherub cheeks on draft day. Every other comment I get is someone asking for more ‘pretty boy rookie content’.” Harris mocks, startling a laugh out of Bood from across the room. Harris doesn’t even spare him a glance as he presses, “I need something I can post, Rozanov.” He glares at Ilya. “Go talk to him. Now.”
Ilya holds up both hands in surrender as he side-steps out of where Harris has unintentionally boxed him in against his locker. He hesitantly pats Harris’s shoulder- only partially nervous that the man may try to bite him, or something equally insane- before swiping his clean t-shirt from the bench where it had been tossed, and tugs it over his head.
“I will fix, I promise.” Ilya shoots Harris a reassuring smile, Shane an uneasy look, and begins to make his way out of the locker room.
“Don’t forget a leash and some rolled up newspaper!” Bood taunts as he flashes Ilya a grin. Ilya’s alternate captain follows up the taunt with a quirked brow, an obvious you want some capital A-ssistance- a joke Ilya barely understands let alone finds funny. Ilya waves him off, Bood merely shrugs.
Troy stops him with a hand wrapped around Ilya’s wrist as he passes by.
“If he keeps pissing off my boyfriend, Rozanov,” Troy threatens under his breath. He lets the rest of the sentence float in the air unsaid. Ilya gets the gist.
Ilya shakes Troy off, rolling his eyes. “I said, I will fix. Fuck off, Barrett.” Ilya saunters from the room, showcasing far more confidence than he truly has in his ability to manage the Centaurs’ current rookie problem.
He’s halfway down the corridor when he hears footsteps echo throughout the hall. Ilya turns his head to see his husband jogging to catch up with him.
“You need backup?” Shane asks as he falls into step with Ilya. His voice is soft, eyes gentle and concerned, and Ilya simply must stop in order to kiss him about it.
He presses a firm kiss to Shane’s lips- it’s involuntary, really, the need to shower his husband with as much affection as possible.
Shane hums in pleasant surprise, eyes fluttering closed as he cups Ilya’s cheek.
Ilya reluctantly pulls away, thumb coming up to wipe any wetness from the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Nyet, solnyshko,” Ilya reassures him. “I can handle brat twenty-year-old. Is captain duty.”
Shane smirks at him. “Remember his first practice with the team last year before leaving to finish his season back home? When Hayes kept calling him ‘toothache’ because of how sweet he was?”
Ilya groans, shakes his head. “No, no, Shanya- that Luca is gone.” Shane continues walking with Ilya as he resumes his path towards the room where Harris usually filmed his content. “That Luca was kidnapped by aliens-”
“Abducted.”
“- the moment he stepped off plane in Switzerland. Rookie we have now is some sort of… hell spawn.”
In truth, Ilya does remember that version of the Centaurs’ newest rookie.
Luca had shown up to the summer development camp an entirely different player than he was now. Ilya can recall the kid’s open, expressive face. Luca had been shy, reserved- but generous with his smiles and so eager to be there. Ilya had heard Wiebe talk of the kid for months before the actual draft, had almost felt like he knew him already when Luca arrived, all golden curls and bright eyes and youthful exuberance.
Luca had blushed when he shook Ilya’s hand. Had stammered his way through the introduction before shyly admitting to Ilya that he’d grown up with Ilya’s poster adorning his walls back home.
It had reminded Ilya of Shane, if he was being honest, way back in the days of their own junior leagues. Ilya had gone home, remembers telling Shane about the bright-eyed rookie, talked about how much potential Luca had, how excited Ilya had been to have him join the team.
When Shane had joined them later on in the development camp, Shane himself couldn’t stop raving about Luca.
Luca’s skill, Luca’s personality, Luca’s potential.
The entire team had been waiting with bated breath for Luca Haas to join them full-time.
That feels so, so long ago now.
Shane sighs as they draw to a stop outside of Ilya’s destination. He reaches down and squeezes Ilya’s hand. With a rueful chuckle, Shane comments, “Ironic how someone who looks so angelic can act like such a demon.” Shane leans forward, presses a lingering kiss to Ilya’s cheek. “Good luck, captain.”
“You will wait for me?” Ilya questions softly, waiting for a reply before letting go of his husband’s hand.
“Forever,” Shane confirms with a smile.
Ilya lets Shane go, watches him disappear back down the hallway before turning towards the closed door with a sigh. “Here we fucking go,” he huffs out bitterly, before turning the handle, and walking inside.
Harris’s content room is well-lit and sparsely decorated. There’s a fold out table set against the far wall, different backdrops and props neatly organized across it. A small collection of different styles of ring lights and reflectors lean against a set of cabinets stuffed with various Centaurs’ merch. More often than not, all that Harris has set up is a single, neutral backdrop with a stool positioned a couple feet in front of it, a tripod camera standing next to a ring light, and a handful of props off to one side.
That’s what Ilya sees now, as he enters the room.
The stool is where Ilya finds Luca Haas, perched on top of the plush cushioned-seat with a defiant hunch to his shoulders. His golden curls shine, distractingly bright, in the glow of the ring light, and Ilya sees the glint of the rookie’s sharp, gray-blue eyes as they flit across his phone screen while he scrolls mindlessly. Luca is wearing a Centaurs’ sweater, the fit over-sized in the absence of his padding and gear. He looks so small, dwarfed by the sweater and compact as he is nearly curled in on himself. The kid’s cheeks are still flushed from practice, or maybe just from Ilya’s eyes on him- which he is doggedly ignoring, at the moment.
“Haas,” Ilya drawls as he slows to a stop a few feet in front of Luca.
“Rozanov,” Luca responds dryly, eyes never straying from his phone screen.
Ilya’s fingers drum a restless, anxious rhythm where they hang against his thigh. He’s been fairly spoiled, over the years- has rarely had to deal with more than the occasional hotheadedness from a random player here and there. Luca has proved to be an exception ever since officially joining the team during training camps over the summer. Ilya finds himself on uncertain ground in his captaincy, for the first time in a very, very long time.
“Care to explain how- or why- you have upset nicest man in Canada?”
Luca scoffs, eyes rolling dramatically. He shoots Ilya a quick, disbelieving glance before returning to his phone.
Ilya waits, admittedly longer than he intends to, for Luca to elaborate. When he doesn’t, Ilya throws his hands up into the air.
“Hui s’gory,” Ilya mutters to himself, before snapping, “Speak, rookie.”
Luca finally looks up from his phone, glaring at Ilya. “Drover is so dramatic- I fucking played his insufferable ‘twenty questions’ game. It’s not my fault that the questions were stupid.”
Ilya grinds his teeth as he moves slowly towards Luca, pausing before responding to allow the frustration and annoyance bubbling under his skin time to settle. He is a good captain, he does not blow up at his players, Luca is just a rookie, he doesn’t know a-
“He’s so fucking obnoxious, anyway. I don’t know why he has to act like… that. I don’t understand how you all put up w-”
“Zakroy svoy rot!” Ilya hisses, eyes narrowing as he stares Luca down. His hand shoots forward to grab at Luca’s jaw. His grip tightens, the rookie’s cheeks smushing together between Ilya’s fingertips. Luca’s eyes spit fire at Ilya but he stays silent, even as he fumbles and his phone slips from his hand, clattering onto the floor. “You have been nothing but pest since your skates touched our ice. I am captain of this team, da? You understand this?” Ilya shakes Luca when he receives no answer. “Da?!”
“Fucking- yes! Yes,” Luca shouts, hands finally raising to shove at Ilya’s chest, but Ilya does not relent.
“Then you will listen to me, rookie.” Ilya’s fingers curl, grip tightening meanly as his nails bite into the soft flesh of Luca’s cheeks. The kid whimpers, eyes finally losing their spark of indignation as Luca blinks up at Ilya pitifully. “You have real shot here, you know? Is your big break. If you keep up attitude- keep picking fights with me and Bood, being pest on ice, keep being ass to nice, helpful people like Harris?” Ilya shakes his head, scoffs. “Is over for you. Before it even begins. Is this clear enough for you, kid?”
Luca takes a beat to glare at Ilya- eyes darting across his face frantically, every muscle in the rookie’s body strained- before Ilya witnesses as the tension seeps from Luca, shoulders drooping and eyes suddenly downcast as he nods.
“Clear, captain.” Luca mumbles, words muffled due to Ilya’s punishing grip around the rookie’s jaw.
Ilya drops his hand, tries to push down the flicker of guilt he feels when Luca brings a hand up to massage at the tender skin.
“I will send Harris back in. You will be poster boy for Canadian politeness, da?”
“I’m Swiss,” Luca responds dryly, gaze flickering up to Ilya’s before dropping back down to the floor.
Ilya rolls his eyes as he turns to leave the room, tosses over his shoulder, “Then you will be neutral, rookie. Is better than whatever you were being before.” Ilya slams the door behind him before Luca has the chance to reply.
Ilya collects himself on his way back to the locker room, squares his shoulders as he saunters in- the poster boy of Captainly Confidence.
He flashes a grin at Harris, who is leaning with stubbornly crossed arms against the wall while Troy rubs his shoulder soothingly. Harris stares at him, brows raised in a silent question.
“Rookie is ready to be perfect little angel for you, Harris.” Ilya assures him. “His bark is worse than his bite, da?”