Chapter Text
December, 2010
The only sound in the conference room was soft knocking of Ilya’s knee against the side of the table. His leg was bouncing rapidly as he rocked the swivel chair side to side, his arms crossed and brow showing off his annoyance. This whole thing was insufferable.
So what if he didn’t always know how to translate the questions reporters threw out at him? So what if it sometimes made him lose his temper and pop off at some idiotic thing a journalist commented? What did any of that matter to him?
All that should matter to the MLH and the Boston Raiders is that he was the best player of his draft class, maybe even in the league right now. Nothing else mattered.
And yet, here he was, at 10:13 in the morning pulled from practice early so he could be introduced to his new English Media Trainer (made up title if you asked him). Not for the first time in the last 4 days, Ilya cursed himself for what led to this whole situation in the first place. If he could just go back in time, maybe he would stop himself from shooting out of his seat and throwing-
“Mr. Rozanov?”
Ilya turned his chair to stare dumbly at the door; he didn’t even try to throw the secretary a flirtatious grin, that’s how annoyed he was.
“Mr. Hollander is here to meet with you.”
“Ah, yes, show him into my personal office here, not like he is late or anything.”
Ilya was prepared to keep griping if it wasn’t for the most beautiful man he had ever seen walking out from behind her. He looked like he could have just come off the rink with Ilya, decked out in athletic wear and sneakers. As he walked in, he removed the plain hat from his head and thanked the secretary, a hesitant smile lacing his lush, full lips. And that face. People have been known to commit crimes over faces like that. Covered in freckles, and just begging to be kissed.
Holy shit, this could not be who they expected him to work with.
“Ilya Rozanov?” Shane questioned as the door closed. He walked up to Ilya’s still sitting form, his hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you. I’m Shane, Shane Hollander.”
Ilya just stared at the hand like it would bite him, taking a second before slowly reaching out to shake it.
“I’ve heard a lot about you-”
“Yes, and my dirty mouth I am sure.”
They both just stared slack jawed at that. Ilya felt his cheeks burn as Shane let out a surprised chuckle.
“Uh, I meant about your playing. Your technique is incredible, albeit a bit showboaty.” He sat in the chair beside Ilya. “Though I am here to talk about your, uh, less than stellar interview moments.”
Ilya groaned, throwing his head back. “Is not my fault reporters ask dumb questions.”
He expected a raised brow, maybe even a light scolding like he would get from the coaches. Instead, he just heard another velvety soft chuckle. “Can’t fault you for their dumb questions, but I can judge you for how you react.”
“Who would judge me with this face.”
“Last time I checked your face wasn’t the problem.”
“Ah, yes, is with my-”
“If you say dirty mouth again I might have to get HR.”
A surprised laugh burst out of Ilya.
“Anyways, since we’ve established why I’m here. Why not move on to who we are.”
“We already say names.”
“Yeah, but tell me about yourself.”
Ilya cocked an eyebrow. “You did not look me up before you come here? Thought you knew all about me with that technique comment.”
Shane shook his head with an apologetic smile. “I know Ilya the player, but I mean Ilya the person. What should I know about him?”
That stopped him.
Who was Ilya Rozanov, the person? He was only Ilya Rozanov, the player to pretty much everyone else in the world, so he didn’t think about it much anymore. His fans, his father, his coaches. He hadn’t worried about his wants and needs since he was a child. Since his mother passed. What could he even say?
“Sorry, that’s probably putting you on the spot.” The tips of Shane’s ears were a dusty pink.
“On the what?”
“Oh, uh, like you weren’t ready for such a personal question.” Shane ran a nervous hand through his hair. “I can go first if you want.”
Ilya nodded, thrown off by already not understanding a phrase in this meeting.
“Well, obviously I was hired by the Raiders to help you with media training. My mother’s PR firm is pretty well known in the sports industry, especially hockey. But I was also brought in because I’m somewhat of a language specialist and I’ve helped multiple other athletes who are new to Canada and the US navigate learning English while also training to understand reporters.”
“So you are nerd.”
That came out a little harsher than he intended, but it seemed to be alright because Shane chuckled rather than scoffing.
“Yeah, at least when it comes to learning new languages and hockey at least.”
“So not a tennis fan then?”
Shane shook his head, his smile turning bittersweet. “No. I played hockey my whole life until an ACL tear in high school shut down any possibility of going pro. It was kinda my whole life up until that point.”
The wave of longing washed over Ilya, surprising him. He almost wished he could have seen the attractive man in his athletic prime, even if he was a worse player than him.
“But anyways,” Shane leaned back in his chair, slapping a hand on his thigh. “I already knew English, Japanese and French from growing up. And I actually grew up with a Russian teammate in high school, and he taught me some conversational Russian. I’ve tried to keep up with it over the years, but I’m sure compared to a fluent native speaker I sound like an imbecile.”
Shane looked over to Ilya, tentative smile still intact. “Now you.”
Well. “From Russia, grew up in Moscow until I move here. Played hockey whole life, and I am obviously good since first draft pick last year.”
Shane actually rolled his eyes.
“Fine, fine!” Ilya huffed. “My father and brother are police. We do not get along, but I send money home every month to help because my father is very ill.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Terminal?”
“I do not know this.”
“Uh, is it really serious?”
“Yes. Dementia. He is slowly forgetting everything, even me and my brother. He calls me sometimes thinking I am still in Russia.”
Shane just nodded slowly, and Ilya was happy he didn’t offer worthless platitudes. “Is your mother taking care of him?”
And there it was. “No, my brother and stepmother take care of him.”
“I’m sure it must be hard, being away while that’s going on.”
Ilya shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t have to say anything more.
Seeming to sense Ilya wanted to move on, Shane rubbed his palms against his legs and cleared his throat. “Well, thank you. For sharing that with me. We’re gonna be working closely together for a while, and I hope we can get to know each other better.”
Ilya didn’t really do friends. Sure he had guys on the team he would go out with, but no one he ever really opened up to. He hadn’t even told Marleau, the guy who’d taken him pretty much under his wing, about his dad. Friends meant relying on one another, about sharing things. Ilya didn’t do that.
“I won’t always be here in Boston during our meetings, sometimes we might have to talk over zoom. But the coaches want us to talk at least once a week to prepare for interviews and prep.”
“Okay.”
Shane smiled, and held his hand out to Ilya. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Rozanov.”
Ilya scoffed. “Uh, no, just Ilya.”
“Then make sure you call me Shane, and not Mr. Hollander. That secretary earlier made me feel like my father.”
Ilya laughed and took Shane’s hand into his own. Maybe this wouldn’t be as painful as he thought.