Chapter Text
Despite running a kids' hockey club, Shane Hollander was a terrible hockey coach.
It wasn't for lack of trying.
Admin was his specialty. You could throw Shane any admin task and he'd thrive, isolating himself in a little world of spreadsheets and systems, focusing better than a hamster on a wheel. He ran his hockey club like the navy, ensuring that permission slips were signed and documented and recorded onto his own systems; that allergy lists were checked and updated every time they got a new player; and that timetables were scheduled, booked, and well-communicated months in advance.
With one parent working for the Canadian treasury board and the other boasting a long career in Management and PR, you could almost say that Shane's skills were genetic, which was how he managed to singlehandedly run jobs that probably (smartly) should have been ran by a whole team of people - but why would Shane make it easier for himself when he could prove to everyone that he could do it all by himself? His hockey club was his baby, his focus, a way to still prove to the world that he could accomplish something.
At practices, Shane could usually be found in the stands with his laptop, answering FAQs about upcoming games and trips before parents could even think of the questions. An overwhelming majority of his spare time was dedicated to researching every possible detail that came with his job(s): insurance, Hockey Canada certifications, safeguarding, health & safety, financing, conflict resolution, child protection - anything that could possibly affect a co-ed Minor Hockey club.
Even fire safety. For an ice rink.
Truly, there wasn't a single aspect of running a hockey club that Shane Hollander didn't excel at. There wasn't a single thing that he hadn't tirelessly worked at, never resting until he reached a point where no one could deny his excellence.
Well. There was one thing that people could deny.
Shane Hollander's skill at actually teaching hockey.
Don't get him wrong, he's a phenomenal player. Or was a phenomenal player. All things considered, would still be seen as a good player, despite the setbacks and the constant ticking click of a stubborn and slightly-off healed knee joint. A constant reminder of those setbacks.
Good wasn't the same as phenomenal.
Coaching had been his best solution to getting back to the ice in any capacity, but it had been too small an ambition for a young Shane who was still clutching towards the greatness he had meant to achieve. The greatness he was owed. Opening a hockey club of his own? Handling a team's worth of jobs all by himself? It had just about satisfied his relentless itch of ambition, a grand plan to inspire a whole new generation of players.
And he really tried. God, he tried. He had studied for it, fought for it, worked to qualify as a coach. It was just that teaching didn't come nearly as naturally to him as hockey did.
It had been a difficult, near-impossible transition as he learned that there was a whole language to coaching, to communicating and putting into words what existed in his body only as instinct. He couldn't seem to find the words to explain what he could just do.
This was a fact he'd learned devastatingly quickly in his first week of coaching his first tiny Timbit team. He'd come equipped with his online courses and multitude of written essays needed to get qualified in the first place. It didn't change the fact that the sea of little faces (well, with only 12 players at first, it was more like a puddle) and their parents' faces, and the other coach's faces had contorted with confusion as Shane had attempted to explain the importance of weight-bearing and core engagement and centre of gravity when it came to matters of skating.
To five-year-olds.
He'd hired two new coaches to replace himself in the coaching team by the end of the month.
So, all in all, admin was where Shane was comfortable. It had been painful to admit the fact that it was widely agreed the best use of Shane's skills was, in fact, off the ice. The ice that had been his home, that had been second nature to him, was now no longer the natural choice. So, really, technically speaking, he was more of a hockey club manager than a coach. It did not stop him from still attempting to take on every job title under the sun, against better advice.
Overall, Shane did the responsible thing and stayed off the ice, for the sake of his knee and for the sake of keeping the kids' brains unmelted. Except, of course, came the rare occasions he would have to fill in as a substitute coach when one of his regular on-ice coaches fell ill.
On this day, around ten years since he'd assembled his first tiny team, he suspected that the "flu" taking out one of the U9s assistant coaches - some guy called Jack? Jake? - might have really been a hangover from a college senior party.
As much as Shane had accepted his lack of an aptitude for skating, he still liked getting the opportunity to get back on the ice. And he really did care about his kids, his teams, even if he was usually a little more on the outside of the action. So, Shane laced his skates and prepared himself for a morning of basic puck-handling drills, leaving his usual space in the stands and his laptop for the day.
Even though Shane had a tendency to confuse the little ones with jargon and badly communicated drills, it wasn't as if he was disliked by the kids. He wasn't exactly their favourite, either, but he settled for not getting too many rolled eyes in greeting when the kids realised he'd be coaching that day.
There was, however, one outlier from the mass opinion. One with a brave, loud voice for someone so little, who had nearly screeched at seeing Shane on the ice, with thick blonde curls spilling out and barely contained by her helmet and blue eyes that had honed in as she hurtled towards her target.
"Coach Shane!" The girl called, her bubbly voice lightly accented.
"Coach Shane, are you skating with us today? Please say yes. Say yes. Pleeeaase." The exclamation was spoken - no, screeched - in a tone that suggested the kid might explode without an affirmative answer.
Masha Rozanova was obsessed with Shane Hollander. No one knew why.
While the other kids were, understandably, drawn to the other coaches (extroverted types who were "down with the kids", actually knew what memes were, and communicated near-exclusively with fist bumps and huge, children's-entertainer level gestures) Masha had been glued to the 35-year-old's awkward, quiet hip since her Initiation year.
Shane couldn't help but smile. Masha was sweet and endlessly curious, usually having a handful of new questions for him every week, with at least half of them being some variation of 'why?'.
"I am, yes. Just for today." Shane confirmed with a nod. "Why? You want a race? Only if you don't cheat this time." Shane's soft, restrained smile and teasing came easily as he greeted the rush of helmetted blonde curls who'd, fortunately, braked without managing to crash straight into him.
Masha let out a gasp at the accusation, though she immediately gave away her lack of offense with giggling. "Liar! I didn't cheat!" She said, with a harmless gloved smack to Shane's arm that didn't even jostle him.
"Okay, okay! I guess you won fair and square." Shane conceded, holding his hands up. "Do you still want another race later, to be sure?" He offered.
Masha had won their last race, obviously. (She had also definitely cut corners). Shane knew that it was better for her to take out her competitive streak on him, rather than the other kids. She was a brilliant young talent, but an aggressive one. She'd made a few of the other kids cry, on previous occasions.
"Yes!" Masha agreed, enthusiastically, before some other thought caught her attention. "Wait, no! Just-- Wait!" Masha flitted back and forth between ideas as her train of thought was briefly derailed. Shane just watched, a little confused. Kids were funny like that. They'd always get the strangest on-the-spot ideas that just had to be said right at the moment they were thought. From the other kids, it was usually ideas like 'What if we used really big pucks as sticks, and really little sticks as pucks?' or 'Coach Shane, if I put a pair of skates on my hands as well as my feet, I could be an ice Transformer. That'd be so awesome'. There wasn't a lot that could surprise Shane anymore. Still, he was confused by the sudden burst of motivation Masha seemed to have found.
"Coach Shane, come here. Here! Right now. Come." Masha had made a break for the benches, gesturing for Shane to follow without checking to see if he really was. Not wanting to risk her wrath by delaying, Shane followed.
Masha Rozanova, and all 4 foot of her, was exceptionally outspoken for a 7-year-old. Shane knew that there wasn't space to argue, not when she held her hand out for him with some thoroughly thought-through battle plan on her mind that Shane couldn't even attempt to guess at. While he was used to Masha's confidence, there was something different in her current bid for his attention. A kind of gravitas, as attempted by a child who'd decided what she needed to say was worthy of occasion.
Was he in trouble? Was he about to get told off by one of his own players? What had he even done wrong? Nevertheless, he waited (in fear) patiently.
Masha Rozanova straightened as tall as she could make herself, swaying slightly on her feet as she exaggeratedly cleared her throat, probably mimicking the same manner that cartoon characters did to mark that they were going to make a big speech.
"Coach Shane." She started, with a startling intensity. "Will you please be honoured and get married with my papa?"
... It turned out that there was something that could still surprise Shane, after all.
Shane blinked. Maybe, if someone stood very close, they would be able to hear the record-scratch in his brain. They still had five minutes before the session officially started but Shane had already just been blindsided by the benches, his attention drawn away from the slow stream of players arriving for the 9am session. Masha continued, steamrolling ahead.
"We have a really nice house, and my papa is really funny, and he'll make you really nice dinners, and you're both really good at hockey, and Papa is really kind, and you're really kind, so it's perfect." Masha barely took a breath as she spoke, determined to make her case as quickly and as convincingly as she could.
Shane's mouth, in his shock, was opening and closing like a fish on land. It didn't deter the Rozanova girl, who took no notice of his expression.
"Please, Coach Shane. Here! The ring for you. You need a ring." And Masha pulled from her pocket a ring that Shane was absolutely certain she should not have. It was beautiful, three overlapping bands of metal delicately woven together. A woman's ring, which he doubted would get past his second knuckle -not that he had any intention of actually trying it on. This was something expensive and precious and stolen (!).
Shane's fish-mouthing continued.
Many thoughts ran through Shane's head. The first being the safeguarding implications of being proposed to by a player, though it was on behalf of her parent. The safeguarding guides had spoken about boundaries and the importance of upholding professional coaching relationships. They hadn't mentioned what to do in the event that one of his players attempts to set him up with their dad.
His second thought was about the ring- the stolen ring. He was shocked that it had managed to stay put in her pocket for even this long. Sure, he knew that he wasn't liable for personal property on the ice - he'd personally printed the signs that told players to keep mobile phones in lockers or, better, with parents, as there was nothing he could do about a smashed or stolen phone - but it didn't mean that there wouldn't be hell to pay if Masha's papa realised that a priceless and tiny family heirloom was lost somewhere in the arena or in the sweaty locker room.
Thirdly, he thought about Masha's papa.
Ilya Rozanov. Ex-hockey superstar. First a Boston legend, then Ottawa's saviour for two seasons before a surprise retirement. Shane had dropped a whole stack of flyers the first time he'd seen Ilya walking into the rink years ago with Masha in tow. While that surprise had explained his sudden retirement, the rest of Ilya Rozanov's surprises had continued, unexplained and never making sense in Shane's head.
The man had a staring problem. It had been that way since they'd met. Eye contact and appraising once-overs and comments that maybe could have been seen as flirting but obviously weren't. Because what reason would Ilya Rozanov have to flirt with him? Clearly, Shane got too far in his own head when it came to Ilya Rozanov. Making up ideas that he could be staring or, God forbid, even flirting. It was ridiculous.
Like he wasn't staring straight back at him, too.
It appeared that being surprising was a trait that ran in the Rozanov family, because getting a whole marriage proposal at 9am on a Sunday? It wasn't exactly something Shane wouldn't have put money on.
He hadn't realised that he'd been fishmouthing for so long that Masha had started staring at him, expectant for an answer, and had started to prod his hand with the ring. Shane carefully pulled his hand back before she could do something ridiculous like, say, actually attempting to get the ring on his finger.
He had to say something.
"Maria," - Uh oh, the formal name. Masha seemed to pick up quickly on the lack of diminutive, her features steeling like she was preparing a counter-argument already. Shane spoke with all of the gravity of a man facing a genuine proposal rather than treating it as, arguably, the hijinks of a meddling elementary-schooler.
Shane started carefully. "Thank you. It's, uh, it's a really kind offer." Friendly. Start positively. Good job.
"But, Masha, I'm sorry. I can't say yes." Shane was diplomatic and straight-forward. A sensible approach.
"Why not?" Sensible approaches were no match for such a question. Unwavering, Masha's tiny brows furrowed and she crossed her arms as if her posture could emphasise her stubbornness on the matter. Shane felt like he'd been nudged and shoved into some kind of a bomb disposal scenario. It required delicacy. Sensitivity.
"Because... marriage is... a very personal decision. Between grown ups. Grown ups only. And it's up to your papa to decide who he marries. You can't make that choice for him, he has to make it for himself." That was an answer. Sure. It was something.
"Why?"
Shane usually loved Masha's endless curiosity. He did not love seeing it weaponised against him. It was such an easy way to be unravelled, to lose sense of an argument because everything could just end up being refuted with another 'why not?'.
"Because your papa would be the one getting married, not you."
Masha seemed to have decided that this answer wasn't good enough, and her fiery little stare didn't soften one bit. Shane tried again.
"And your Papa doesn't know me."
"That's not true!"
Shane had spoken to Ilya on rare occasions. The brief small talk of drop-offs and pick-ups. They had stared more than they had spoken, lingering, which Shane had never been able to tell if it was intentional or if it had become a 'why is this man staring at me?' staring match. The intensity seemed to suggest otherwise, but staring was still hardly a strong foundation to build a marriage on.
Shane had to try another approach, another argument or angle or appeal to authority that couldn't be so easily crumbled with a 'why not?'. He changed the subject.
"Maria, you can't bring things from home to practice without telling your Papa. Does he know you have this ring?"
The guilty expression on the girl's face said more than words ever could. It was easily turned into another weapon against him and Shane hated that fact. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't marry a near stranger, yet it felt criminal under the weighed stare of the Rozanova girl and her piercing blue eyes. There was nothing in his hours of research that would help with this. He'd learned how to deal with fights, or tetchy parents, or the overspilling emotions that came from very little kids having very big feelings about losing a game. This was uncharted territory, he suspected, for anyone. He was navigating blind and trying to fumble for a safe way out.
"Look. How about I keep this safe, okay? I'll make sure that you don't lose it while you're on the ice. You'll be going so fast, it might go flying." Shane offered, sneaking a compliment in there in the hopes it might distract her from the topic. He held a hand out for the ring, which would be safer in his own pocket than with the 7-year-old.
It was a smart plan, he thought. Oversee the delivery of a very expensive ring back to Ilya Rozanov, explain the story as a funny story - funny haha and not funny weird - and they could all move on and laugh about it when Masha eventually ends up drafted to the WNHL. Perfect.
Except, he missed the expression on Masha's face as she dropped the ring into Shane's hand. The look of vindication from a stubborn 7-year-old who'd just watched her coach "accept" her offered ring.
In Masha's scheming mind, her plan was going perfectly.
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All Ilya ever seemed to hear about from his daughter was Coach Shane. Every Sunday, without fail.
"Papa! Coach Shane skated with us today, and he said he liked my new skates, and I beat him in a race to show him just how good they are."
"Papa, Coach Shane was looking very lonely in the seats today. Papa, do you think Coach Hollander has friends? Papa, you should talk to him and be his friend, I think."
"Papa, Coach Shane said that vegetables will help make me a better hockey player. Can we have broccoli with dinner, please?"
That last one had especially pissed him off, since Masha had been on the war path when it came to vegetables, and Ilya had been holding the front line on that particular battlefield, only for perfect Coach Shane to come along and be perfect and end his whole battle with a sentence. Ilya didn't know whether to be deeply offended or grateful.
But there was no shortage of praises that he heard about the hockey coach from his daughter. Some were genuinely very sweet, when they weren't praises that undermined Ilya's determined attempts at parenting.
Apparently Coach Shane was more quiet than the other coaches, but it meant he took more time with the kids who were slower on the ice. Apparently he was a superhero with a first aid kit, pulling bandaids from thin air the second someone got a graze, fixing any woes in seconds flat. Apparently Coach Shane really listened. He was funny but didn't try to turn everything into a joke, and he didn't talk to the kids in that awful 'hey buddy!' voice like the other coaches, instead just talking to everyone with the same respect he'd talk to the adults with. This fact had become particularly amusing to Ilya after Masha had proudly left a practice describing herself as "a junior tactician with an aptitude for defense", and there was only one person she could have learned all those words from.
One fact that Ilya had learned on his own, and not from his daughter, was that Coach Shane had a face covered with freckles. Constellations written into his skin. Vesnushki, in Russian. Or, simply: dots, as Masha had so eloquently put it once. Occasionally he'd been able to make small talk with Coach Shane, but Ilya had been too distracted by said dots. There had been plenty of lingering stares shared across the lobby, returned even while Coach Shane was supposed to be talking to other parents.
Ilya wanted to flirt with Shane. Maybe a version of himself ten or fifteen years younger would have flirted. But now he was painfully aware that this man was supposed to be off-limits, as his daughter's coach. Not only that, but he was Masha's favourite coach. Probably in her list of Top 3 Favourite people in general. That was complicated territory with a lot of risk and a lot to mess up, no matter how bad he wanted it. Surely there was an etiquette to this that he didn't care about, yet would begrudgingly accept and follow.
Maybe he could just slip in a little compliment to test the waters, while Masha was out of earshot? Something deniable, innocent. And maybe Coach Shane would stare again, or his nose would scrunch in that pretty way it seemed to when he had to think especially hard about something - usually a ridiculous question posed to him by one of the resident helicopter parents. Maybe he would blush.
Or maybe he'd just remind Ilya that it was inappropriate conduct for a parent, and then he'd never get even the slightest catch of small talk from the man again.
So while Ilya knew that he would have taken the risk when he was younger, without a doubt, there was so little he would risk now when it came to Masha. His favourite person in the world. His whole world. These hockey practices were the highlight of her week, and Ilya would be dammed if he ruined such a thing for her. While a younger Ilya might have thought with his dick, age and life had brought along new priorities and a previously-unknown risk aversion for the former hockey demon.
... He really wanted to be able to think with his dick again, though.
Ugh.
Some day, Ilya thought, he'd call it all in and just start flirting to his heart's content. Maybe he could convince Coach Shane that kissing on both cheeks as greeting was also a Russian thing. Maybe he could convince him that kissing on the mouth was, too - the ol' Russian custom of sucking tongue, out of respect, of course. Respectfully.
He couldn't think too much about that right now. Not here. Masha would be running towards him any second for pick-up, along with all the other little hockey sprogs leaving for the day. Maybe he'd catch Coach Shane and his ridiculous huge cow eyes before they left. The staring was pretty much routine now, after all this time. Ilya wondered what topic of small talk they might make today, what he could use as an excuse to keep staring and not taking risks and staring and longing.
Maybe they'd talk about the fucking weather this time.
Ilya was trying to figure out a way he might finally be able to make their conversation last longer, or what updates Masha might have for him, when--
"Mr Rozanov?"
The voice came from Ilya's side. Not another parent, and not Masha.
Ilya turned towards the familiar voice, caught by surprise but quickly preparing for the genial, boring conversation that he'd no doubt be distracted for the duration of, that would be the highlight of his week somehow. However, Ilya didn't get a moment to enjoy soft brown eyes or practice-messed hair. His eyes dropped to the coach's hand held out in front of him, before his brain could quite catch up with what he was being shown. Shane was holding something that caught the light in a soft, golden glimmer.
Coach Shane was holding his mother's ring.