Chapter Text
December 2008
Saskatchewan, CA
International Prospect Cup
Sadness, dark and deep like the winter. He’d always known it. He felt it inside of his body. It was always taking up so much space inside him like an organ. No, maybe a tumor. A tumor that grew and sometimes spread. Sometimes it shrunk too, but not as much as it grew. You couldn’t see it if you looked at him. It was an internal sickness and a secret one. He looked hard and solid, all Slavic men did. He actually was hard, he was a human callous. He was made of thick skin grown over time to protect an area that had taken one too many beatings.
He had things to distract from the sadness. Sometimes the distractions were for others but mostly they were for him. Sarcasm, drinking, snide jokes, sex. A lot of sex. Hockey was not one of them. Ilya Rozanov was the son of his parents- a too tough police lieutenant who believed emotion was weakness and a too kind and loving mother who was swallowed up by her own emotional depths. Ilya inherited both, anyone could see the problems it caused. The two couldn’t coexist and neither could his parents. Ilya felt too much. He was ashamed to feel anything at all.
He was responsible for so much, all the time. He had never succeeded in the eyes of his family, not since she died. His father hated him. He was too much like his mother for him, and his brother was jealous of his success. No matter how much they hated him they were counting on him and expecting him to be perfect. It wasn’t requested, it was demanded. He had to make the family proud. He had to make Russia proud. They needed to look good, not foolish. Nobody was actually proud of him.
In one of the training camps he’d attended in the USA, a sports psychologist had lectured the camp about the benefits of deep breathing. He remembered looking at his translator at the time and raising an eyebrow. He was Russian too and Ilya blinked at him and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. Stupid Americans need to be taught how to breathe? The psychologist made them all take deep breaths, four seconds in, hold for another four seconds, and four seconds of released breath. It physiologically reset your body under stress so they said. He wasn’t sure why he thought of it now, was he stressed? He was at the most important event of his life so far. His performance actually wasn't all that important, it was the prospect cup. A tournament full of scouts for professional American and Canadian teams waiting to find their next rookies.
He’d made a name for himself that one shitty week of play wouldn’t erase, but it wouldn't be a shit week. Hockey was his only love, and his only possible escape. He had no doubt he would be in America by next year. He hissed a hot breath into the cold air. He knew he could perform, it’s what he did.
Ilya twitched his lips, he’d do the stupid American breathing but he'd do it on his terms. He reached into the deep pocket of his wool coat and his hand came up empty. It was cold in the Canadian winter, almost cold enough that if he closed his eyes the cold winds lashing at his cheeks felt like he was at home. He patted his other pockets until he found the one with a flattened soft paper box inside. He never understood why someone wouldn’t smoke. Smoking was a joy in life even if he was smoking strange Canadian cigarettes. He rolled his thumb over the sharp metal wheel of the lighter, the flame disappeared in the biting wind. He cursed to himself and turned to block the wind with his body until the cigarette finally lit. He took in a triumphant drag, four long seconds. He knew that every puff was probably taking years off his life, putting tar in his lungs.
Whatever.
He held the smoke in his chest and counted to four, he blew the smoke out slowly over four seconds and leaned his head back against the side of the arena. He smirked. He’d have to go back inside soon and get dressed but right now he just had this cigarette. They had an hour of ice time before their game tonight. He’d have hours to spend at the hotel between the practice and the game. He didn’t want to, he’d rather sit and watch the other prospects and teams practice. If he couldn’t be on the ice himself, he could at least watch his competitors on it.
The only time Ilya felt safe, centered, and as if he was in control of the world around him was when he was gliding on ice on 4mm wide metal blades. When he was throwing his body into the boards, and when the horn blew loud enough it cancelled all the noise between his ears. Hockey was a sport of anger, the only one where No. It was THE drug. Ilya had tried everything short of heroin in terms of drugs, every thrill and high, nothing was like hockey.
He could bare his teeth, he could show the darkness he inherited from his father and he could push himself to the point of failure. Ilya could always win. Well, maybe that wasn’t true, it was a team sport and sometimes teams fucking sucked and he couldn’t always control that. He could always be the best on the ice, that was true mostly. Except for maybe one other player.
“Ilya Rozanov?” a voice called in English, Ilya turned his head. He flicked his eyes to the speaker. He’d appeared right when he’d been thinking of him. The only other person who may be better than him, but he wouldn’t let be better than him. Shane Hollander.
Ilya was tall, pale, with sharp features, and blondish curly hair. He was built more like a swimmer than a hockey player with his wide muscular stature. Ilya’s body and mind were shaped by beating after beating and life stealing things from him. Maybe a little by making bad decisions for fun as well.
Shane Hollander stood a few feet away, it’s the closest Ilya had been to him aside from game film on a TV. He'd followed his statistics and seen highlight clips, he was the only other center of his caliber in their age group. He was shorter, he had olive skin and dark hair, and he was not broad or physically imposing in the same way as Ilya. Someone who didn’t know Shane may pick a fight with him based on how he looked if they didn’t know he was more than capable of hurting someone. He was athletic in an unassuming way. He was anything but unassuming on the ice. Hollander’s high and childlike cheeks were red as he squinted through a gust of wind, his hands jammed in his pockets. He had a smile on his face that looked too natural, like it was always there. It was kind and inviting, it was a smile that would make people think he was a friend. Ilya couldn’t remember a time he smiled at a stranger outside of trying to sleep with them.
”Shane Hollander” he said, yanking one of his hands out of his pockets and extending it forward as he walked closer to Ilya, as if he didn’t already know his name.
By the time Hollander stopped moving forward and their hands clasped in a firm handshake, Ilya’s eyes became stuck on those red cheeks again. He’d missed at a distance how blended into his flush were a thousand brown freckles that climbed across the bridge of his nose. Hollander was boyish, beautiful, and a little too warm as a competitor. Ilya glanced down at his body once, they were wearing nearly the same thing, sweatsuits with a black jacket and beanie.
“I wanted to introduce myself” he continued in a friendly voice. Ilya didn’t want to look at him or his freckles anymore. He had his back against the exterior rink wall. His cigarette had died in the wind and the momentary distraction of Hollander. He flicked his lighter again to light the cigarette and it took.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here” Hollander said, miming a cigarette to his mouth as if he wasn’t sure he’d understand him. Ilya wondered if Hollander would start saying English words slower and louder to him like that would help him understand better. He knew all the words he’d said so far, he was just waiting for something interesting to happen before he spoke.
Ilya blinked and blew out the smoke to show him he didn’t quite care. Ilya enjoyed ignoring social norms, authority, and any rules. He knew anyone else in his place would be engaging in conversation. He didn’t want to. He wanted to study Hollander and see how uncomfortable he could make him. How easily he could control him or get under his skin. He’d need to say something to let Hollander know he knew English so it'd mess with his head a bit more, if he didn’t he’d probably just leave and chalk their interaction up to being lost in translation.
A few beats of silence passed and Ilya breathed out a puff of smoke, he couldn’t help his eyes glancing up and down Hollander’s body again. He wondered if those freckles were on his shoulders, back, or anywhere else he’d need to be in a shower with him to see. Ilya knew if he ever was he’d be looking. The freckles were beautiful, so was Hollander. Perfect boy Hollander. He probably had a perfect girlfriend at home, a perfect house, a perfect dog, perfect perfect perfect. He was the darling of whatever league he was playing in while Ilya was always the talented but bad apple.
“Okay.” Ilya replied, his tone bored. What would such a perfect boy do with that?
Hollander nodded, and smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth, great. Nobody in hockey had perfect teeth. It was part of the game losing teeth. Ilya had three fake ones from taking a puck to the mouth. They looked pretty realistic but the color never matched his other teeth, of course Mr.Perfect Hollander never lost a tooth. Ilya felt a desperate need to corrupt Mr. Perfect and put him on his knees in front of him as see if he could ruin that perfection. Trouble, Ilya thought, his favorite thing was causing trouble. Corrupting the sweet angel of the hockey world would be trouble.
“You’re an awesome player to watch.” Hollander continued, still smiling and not privy to the things running through his mind. Ilya was used to being admired, mostly for his hockey and a lot for his looks. He was also used to being degraded. Admiration from others often came at a price. people admired him because they wanted something from him, it might be admiration in return they desired or to feel important because they were near him and his successes. Maybe the promise of money or future fame was the reason, there was always something in the subtext. Ilya knew every compliment he received was charged with something someone wanted in return.
Hollander’s stupid perfect smile was open, his words full of admiration, and with not a trace of wanting to hear Ilya say the same in return. Hollander was a great player to watch unfortunately, he was intelligent, efficient, and scrappy. Ilya would never tell Hollander this. Ilya was good at reading people and immediately deemed Hollander was incapable of deception. But he wanted to know how he’d react to dismissal, rejection, maybe some other things too. Ilya couldn’t help but to reply.
“Yes” he heard his own voice and wanted to shudder, it was one word and he sounded so stupid. Like a James Bond villain with a thick accent that made pronouncing certain letters and words in English like solving a puzzle only with his tongue. He didn’t like feeling stupid, and he didn’t want to feel stupid in front of Mr. Perfect.
Hollander let out a chuckle. Was he laughing at his accent? Ilya jammed his hand back into his pocket and curled his fingers into a fist. Ilya was stupid, he shouldn’t have said anything. He should practice his English more. Hollander bounced his head once before pivoting, his body moved before his head did and he faced away from Ilya just barely. Hollander didn’t seem to enjoy conversation any more than Ilya did, so why was he trying so hard? He turned so his back was to Ilya.
Never turn your back on your enemy, the words from his father’s sharp mouth ran through his mind. Hollander wasn’t expecting to be stabbed in the back outside of a hockey rink and Ilya wasn’t going to stab him. Hollander instead of walking away, moved a bit further away and leaned his back against the arena walls for a few quiet moments before he spoke again.
“Anyways, I should go, they're waiting for me but um. Good luck in the tournament” Hollander said, the friendly smile back on his face, those freckles still there, dark eyes connecting with his.
He extended his hand again towards Ilya, he only shook hands at the end of hockey games or when forced by his father. He put his cigarette between his lips and reached forward and shook Hollander’s hand twice in the matter of two minutes. He didn’t hate it, in fact he was curious and felt his lips lift into a smirk around his cigarette. He was curious about the man who sought him out, shook his hand two more times than he needed to, and despite Ilya’s coolness was nothing but warm. If Ilya’s reception was winter Hollander’s was summer. He wanted him to stay around a little longer just so he had something to observe. Hollander turned, and was halfway to the rink entrance when Ilya decided he had to say something to him. He was never one to miss an opportunity to remind others he was going to beat them, and he hadn't ever been close enough to Hollander to allow for shit talking. He was now and he wanted to see his reaction.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you” he said to his back, Ilya hated how his voice sounded and how no matter how he tried words with the letter W sounded like he was saying the letter V. Hollander would never do such a thing, his pretty mouth would say all the letters correctly. A different smile came over Hollander’s face that was more of a smirk than the friendliness from a moment ago.
“That’s not happening” he said with confidence, he said it almost like a laugh.
Ilya just raised an eyebrow and tilted his head as if to say, we’ll see. They would. It would come down to Russia vs Canada, and if either team had any sense Ilya and Hollander would be on the same shifts on the ice. Both teams would win their brackets and they’d surely be in the finals. Hollander was probably the only other player in the tournament aside from him who would go to sleep tonight knowing that regardless of what happened that he would be drafted.
“See you in final” Ilya said as Hollander continued towards the rink door and threw it open. The door closed behind him with a metallic groan and Ilya took a few more puffs before stomping the cigarette on the floor and jamming its cold corpse in his pocket. Ilya walked through the rink, the air was just warmer than it was outside. The smell was familiar, rubber. The Czech team was on the ice, running some kind of drill, their players had sloppy stick skills for the high levels of play that were supposed to be here.
Ilya headed for his locker room, he changed wordlessly, slipping his pads on and lacing his skates. His team wasn’t total shit, he’d grown up playing against or with most of them but they weren’t his caliber. He’d have to work hard to beat Canada, he’d have to score many goals, and he would. He didn’t bother wasting his breath on talking to anyone on his team unless they were on the ice, and when it was time, he jumped over the boards and let his skates glide him to center ice. The first few pushes always loosened the tension in his shoulders. He could breathe easy here, he controlled things here, the stick in his hand, how hard he hit someone, and the puck on the ice.
Practice was short, it wasn’t particularly hard. Well it wasn’t supposed to be. A walk through practice was typical for days with games. Ilya couldn’t help but hit his teammates anyway, and put in more effort than usual especially when during one of his coaches’ tirades he looked up into the plastic seats behind the goal and saw Hollander watching. An older woman who he assumed was his mother based on the family resemblance was talking to him passionately about something. Hollander wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at the ice Ilya was on, presumably watching him since he was the best on it. He felt the need to show off a bit. So he did.
Ilya’s coach yelled at him in Russian during a particularly long play explanation as his eyes wandered off to Hollander. He ran the stupid plays, and he flicked the puck under the top crossbar, the bottom corner, and in every other gap their shitty goalie left open. He chirped his own teammates because who else was there to say something to? They won their game that night easily.
*
One Week Later
Prospect Cup Finals
The finals hadn’t come quick enough. He was sick of his team, and he’d scored his way through the entire bracket to get to this game he could finally play against Hollander, perfect Hollander. Hollander scored more points in the tournament than he had, he had more goals and more assists. It was unacceptable and meant Ilya needed to win. Ilya hardly listened to whatever shit the coaches were saying, he didn’t need to listen to them he just needed to play. He knew more about hockey than they did.
He skated into center ice and stood lazily, leaning on his stick until Hollander met him at the dot. He was much wider in his pads, he oozed confidence but not arrogance. Hollander chewed on a mouth guard and skated in a small circle until the official met them in the center. Hollander crouched low into an athletic position, and his dark eyes met Ilya’s through their visors for a second before refocusing downwards. Hollander’s friendly smile was nowhere to be found, his face was only of focus and competition. The puck dropped, and Hollander skated away with it.
The game was good, it was their game. The others on the ice were mere supporting characters, it was a game of centers. Hollander ran his offence with a precision most professional players lacked, he read defenders before they moved, he saw lanes, and he sent passes where he wanted his teammates even if they didn’t know to be there yet. Hollander was quick, skillful, and he hustled on defense. He was a mature, intelligent player.
Ilya was all muscle, all grit, and pure speed. They were well matched, and for the first time in years of playing hockey, Ilya was challenged. During a shift change, he even had a stupid childish passing thought that he was having fun. Hollander for all his smiles off the ice never smiled once in the game. He celebrated with his team, he yelled and pumped his fist when he scored. He didn’t shy away from eye contact with Ilya. The intensity was intoxicating. They traded face off wins, goals, but by the end of the third period Russia had won. 4-3, all three goals for Canada were Hollander’s, two were Ilya’s with one assist. He was pleased they'd won, but he wanted to outscore Mr.Perfect. Ilya yanked the chin strap from his helmet off and let it dangle and flipped his glove off his hand. They lined up with their teams and he shook hands with average players who’d never make it out of minor leagues or wouldn’t be drafted at all. Hollander moved towards him, nodding and shaking hands, his perfect little mouth set in a firm tight line.
Ilya couldn’t help but grab his hand a little tighter than the others and hold onto it a little longer. “See you at the draft” he goaded and moved on to the next player. Ilya found himself looking forward to seeing him again. If only it was to beat him again and perhaps for other reasons as well.
*
Six Months Later
NHL Draft, Los Angeles
“With the first overall selection in the 2008 MHL draft, the Boston Raiders select, Ilya Rozanov”
It was just another thing he’d planned, there was never a doubt in his mind that he would be selected first. He was THE first of first round draft picks. The most talented, the most desirable. Although he planned it and it was always his, Ilya couldn’t help but to have a wide smile creep across his face. Maybe some people were betting on another name being read but it wasn’t another name, it was his.
His father nodded once at him, not in congratulations but in expectation. He’d watched enough drafts to know this was when you were supposed to hug your family after a dream was realized. Sometimes there were tears, love and pride were supposed to be a given. it's what was expected. It wouldn’t be happening for him and he wasted no time pretending it might.
Ilya climbed the stage, shook hands, and lifted the black and yellow jersey in front of his chest. Boston was scrappy and deep defensively with some holes in their offensive line he could fill. They were a team with a chip on their shoulder. He would force himself into the lineup and he wouldn’t leave until he wanted to. He stood on stage for the photos and introductions, and whatever short highlight clip reel they played about him overlaid with announcers evaluating his strengths. Ilya couldn’t help but look out into the audience of people sitting with his eyes scanning and hoping he’d see the look on Hollander’s face. He bet he was pissed off. Pretty perfect Hollander wasn’t number one.
Ilya didn’t have to wait long to see him, Hollander’s name was called next by the Montreal Metros and the camera found him in the audience in the embrace of family. The announcers said nicer things about him than they did about Ilya. He was a class act and comes from a great family. He is the pride of Canada, a potential franchise player who is older than his years overflowing with potential. A future captain. Hollander’s lips twitched into a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes, there was still plenty to look at on his pretty face, his red cheeks, and those beautiful god damned freckles.
Maybe it was the joy of one upping a rival, the only person who could hold a candle to Ilya’s skill, or maybe it was those freckles and eyes. Whatever the reason, Ilya’s pants tightened. He paid little to no attention after Hollander left the stage, returning to sit with his proud parents who were hugging him and smiling. Ilya sat quietly next to his father, and considered how opposite he and Hollander were. Ilya knew better than to wait for his praise as it would never come. His mother would have praised him, she would have kissed his head and twirled his curls around her finger and told him how proud of him she was. But she wasn’t here.
When the show was over, he, Hollander and the big goofy #3 draft pick were brought into the photo and interview room. Ilya grinned in his individual photos, and beamed in the group photo. Hollander was forced to stand next to him knowing Ilya was better. When the photographer asked the men to put up their fingers to show the order they were picked in, Ilya almost laughed with glee. He had a shit eating grin on his face with one finger in the air and glanced down at Hollander. He wasn’t smiling, his mouth was a flat line and he reluctantly raised two fingers. Ilya couldn’t help but look over at him, again and again and again. Maybe it was to taunt him or maybe it was to look at that gorgeous face.
The thing about highs like being drafted to the MHL, there was always a stupid stuffy party to bring back a low. He’d have to speak English much more now and there would be people in important positions, media, teammates, and coaches expecting him to say things correctly and communicate clearly. Hockey wasn’t difficult, but this part of it was, especially with his father here. Ilya would have to walk around like he had a stick under his suit keeping his spine ram rod straight, he’d have to be perfect, say the right thing always. His father preferred he say nothing, and even if he did that there would be corrections. The more public the better for his father for those corrections, he prefered to embarrass his son. Ilya and his father stood at a small table with a champagne glass in his hand as managers, coaches, and other Boston representatives passed through to shake his hand and express their excitement to have him. There were only so many smiles he could give and promises to make their pick worth it to them. This time next year, he’d be ending his last year of development and he’d be going to training camp in Boston.
Between representatives passing though, and his father’s conversation with them, Ilya couldn’t help but let his gaze wander. He was on higher ground on the second level and he was taller than most of the people here. He got to watch people move around, laugh, drink too much, and he watched like it was a zoo. But he didn’t care much about studying a pick that would never make it out of minors. His gaze was fixed downwards on Hollander in his tidy gray suit and perfectly cinched blue tie. It felt like he’d been staring for hours when Hollander looked up and met his eyes, just for a moment or two, his mouth was still in a thin line and his dark bangs rested on his forehead.
Ilya wanted to be in his mind, wanted to know what he was thinking. Did he hate himself? Did he hate him for taking his spot? Did he like Montreal? Did he wish he was sent to Boston? Hollander stood between his mother, a slender Asian woman in a nice dress and a fancy updo who seemed to be doing all of the talking, and a boring looking man in a suit who seemed to watch the conversation going on with a slightly open mouth but didn’t speak. Hollander looked bored, like he’d rather go skate suicides than be at this stupid party. A laugh from the representative from Boston pulled Ilya’s eyes away from Hollander and back to the conversation.
He said nice things about him, how strong Ilya was, how talented he was, the comments were all directed to his father. Ilya always hoped if others complimented him around his father, maybe his Dad would believe he was worth complimenting, it never happened. Ilya had a small smile on his lips, he didn’t need the validation, but it was nice to hear anyway.
“He is strong, but he needs discipline. He can be, how you say, lazy” his father’s words dropped the smile from his face.
His father saw compliments and achievements as a way to humble him and embarrass him in front of the organization that selected him. Ilya’s eyes narrowed, and disdain crept across his face. He wanted to lash out, to say all the things he thought and would embarrass his father like he’d embarrassed him. He wouldn’t, but the idea that someday he could let him stand quietly. He looked at the representative, he didn’t even remember his name. He gave Ilya reassuring smile, eyes pacing between Ilya and his father as if trying to understand the dynamic. Good luck, he thought.
“I find that hard to believe given the way he plays,” the man said with levity.
Ilya was required to defend himself, “I promise to work very hard for you” he told the man, who agreed with a pleased nod.
His father wasted no time admonishing him in Russian and telling him to stop speaking. He looked forward to the day that his father was thousands of miles away, being miserable somewhere else where it wasn’t Ilya’s problem.
After the stupid party, they went to a dinner with the Boston reps that went late, he spoke very little, he listened. He ached to go back to the hotel and find some kind of release and to avoid his father at all costs. He considered walking through the hotel lobby and going to the bar and finding some much older woman and fucking her until he felt better. But it wasn’t a woman he wanted to fuck until he felt better. No, his mind was on a #2 draft pick in a fancy suit.
Ilya decided to do bike sprints and maybe a quick lift, it would relieve some tension. He yanked off his tie and glanced at the clock on the bedside table, 11:03 at night. He hated wearing suits all day, he looked good in a suit though. He threw his clothes into a pile on the chair in the corner of the room and pulled on his workout clothes. The hotel had a small gym, nothing too impressive. It had free weights and a pair of exercise bikes that were empty last night around the same time. Ilya pushed open the gym door and stopped in the doorway, Hollander was there on a bike. He had headphones in and the wire swung in the space between his face and the bike.
He was in a tight undershirt that hugged his muscular arms and was tight on his stomach. His physique was good, great even, but that wasn’t what made Ilya suck in a breath. Hollander was leaning over his bike chin to his chest with his ass firmly planted in the seat, his back was flat like a table, and his forearms extended in front of him and rested on the bike handles. It was a pose of submission, and it was a fucking turn on. With a small roll of his hips from Ilya's hand, Hollander would be on all fours for him, and Ilya could be behind him plunging into him. His face was scrunched up from effort and he was breathing heavy.
Perfect Hollander, bent over for him, now that was something worthy of release. He wanted it badly. Ilya always liked trouble. He felt the most alive when he knew he was about to do something stupid, he didn’t feel so empty. Doing something risky was arousing, and it made his blood pump. What was more exciting and risky than fucking the only person who could compete with you at the MHL draft?
Ilya wanted to best Hollander in every way, especially in this way, he wanted to make those perfect lips whine, cry even. He wanted Hollander on his knees in front of him as Ilya played him like a marionette doll, and he wanted those lips on him and eyes on his as he swallowed around him. He adjusted himself in his shorts and strode towards the empty bike no less than two feet from Hollander. Ilya climbed on the bike and started spinning. Hollander glanced up at him for a moment and improved his posture. Ilya peddled at a speed just ever so quicker than Hollander’s, he adjusted the resistance and peddled faster. He didn’t miss Hollander’s glance over to his face and then down to the resistance knob, he twisted the knob on his own bike and pedaled faster.
They continued this dance, small glances at the other, faster pedaling, the bike turned to max resistance. Hollander’s breath was coming fast in tired pants at the exertion, and if Ilya closed his eyes it could have been sounds of sex. He wished it was. Ilya’s legs ached and his own breaths came fast, his mother’s pendant smacked against his chest and bounced as he rocked on the bike. Ilya couldn’t help the smile on his face as Hollander glanced at him again, clearly as tired as he was. They both went into a rest position, Ilya lifted his arms above his head for maximum recovery as Hollander’s found his own hips. He found the brief workout did just what he was hoping, relieved some tension and got his mind off things. He’d gotten his mind stuck totally on something else, the panting man next to him. Hollander pushed himself off of the bike and let himself collapse to the floor while he breathed hard.
Ilya followed, and grabbed his water bottle. Hollander’s face was flushed all over, his usually neat hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and his well defined chest rose and fell from the exertion. Ilya sat on the floor across from him. He was tired of being next to Hollander, near Hollander. He wanted to be across from him, so they’d have to look at each other. Ilya’s focus was laser, he barely felt himself blink. He didn’t want to blink, he didn’t want to miss it if a flash of interest passed over Hollander’s face or if anything was there to encourage him to do something very stupid and reckless. Hollander’s legs were pulled up towards his chest and Ilya extended his legs out into his personal space, crowding him. Ilya had tested others before, other players, trying to decipher if they were willing to fool around with him if they also quietly liked men. Nobody liked having their space crowded unless they wanted more. It was a delicate and risky game. Hollander made no move. Ilya let out a loud whoop that echoed in the small room at their exertion. He hadn’t pedaled that fast at that high resistance maybe ever, he imagined how much harder he could work if Hollander was always at the bike or squat rack next to him.
“What a fucking day ha?” Ilya asked through a huff of a breath, too Russian sounding, not refined enough.
“Yes totally” was Hollander’s reply, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too agreeable, his eyes were glazed over. Ilya took a squeeze of water from his bottle.
“Is everything you dreamed of?” he asked with a smirk on his face. He knew the answer of course. No, it wasn’t, nobody who was like them dreamed of being number 2.
“Almost” Hollander said, a drip of sweat from his hairline went down his nose and over all of those god damned freckles. He had the desire to lick the drop with his tongue.
He couldn’t help the jab.
“I’m sorry” Ilya told him in the least sincere way possible and couldn’t help but smirk. To his credit, Hollander did not get angry, he chuckled a breath more than a laugh and showed his perfect teeth. Ilya noticed Hollander never fully laughed, it was always a half breath out.
“No you’re not” Hollander said, Ilya took a long draw of his water bottle as his eyes assessed Hollander.
“Montreal is, is nice yes?” he asked. He didn't want Hollander to suffer in some city that was horrible.
“Yea, it’s awesome” Hollander replied, Ilya wondered if he’d be honest with him if it wasn’t or if he wasn’t pleased to go there. Ilya didn’t know much about north american cities aside from the ones he’d trained in or attended camps at. Even then, Ilya was never a tourist, he saw the inside of gyms and rinks.
“Boston is nice too?”, Ilya’s question was the most sincere he’d been with Hollander. He didn’t know much about the city he'd be living in for years.
“Think so, people like it there” Hollander said. Ilya looked at the white form fitting shirt that hugged Hollander’s neck and the ring of wet sweat that bled into the fabric. His throat swallowed hard. A few beats of silence passed between them.
“We will uh, we will be seeing each other a lot” Ilya thought about it as soon as Hollander’s name was called by the Metros. They were in the same conference, they would see each other at least twice a season, and likely in playoffs.
“Yeah, Boston and Montreal play against each other often” Hollander said, Ilya took a long drink of water and didn’t miss as Hollander’s eyes skated down his body, his neck, to his chest, to his spread legs. Ilya didn’t look away, he watched the concentration and interest in Hollander’s dark eyes. He felt a flash of excitement. Was the perfect pretty boy interested in a little trouble too?
He extended his hand out holding the bottle, he selfishly wanted to see Hollander’s lips close around the top and suck water from where his mouth just was. Hollander waved him off to decline it, but Ilya shook the bottle. Ilya smiled, a rare smile of encouragement and from smelling blood in the water. A small twitch of his lips from Hollander was followed by his hand reaching for the bottle. He liked that Hollander was easily convinced, easy to control. He wondered where that good temperament would end or if he’d keep it elsewhere.
He placed the bottle in his hand, intentionally and slowly dragging his fingers across his and watched his reaction carefully. He didn’t jump, he didn’t make a face, he didn’t try to leave or fill the silence. Ilya dragged his hands back to his center over his legs, letting them come to rest on his own inner thighs where his shorts rode up. Hollander took a squeeze of water and held eye contact before his eyes seemed to skim his body again. To Ilya’s disappointment, he only squirted the water in his mouth.
All the usual charge of sexual tension was zipping between them. If there was one thing Ilya knew aside from hockey, it was sex. Ilya should be celebrating somewhere with friends or family tonight, but he didn’t have either of any significance. His life felt like it was owned by everyone else, but not this. Sex and the pursuit of it was something that was his to control. Ilya wanted to control Hollander, he wanted it bad. So he kept testing.
“More” he mouthed to Hollander, and was pleased when he listened, drinking more water before passing the bottle back. Ilya made a point again to let his fingers drag over his hot skin. He took a long sip from the bottle and maintained eye contact with Hollander, winking at him which seemed to be the only thing that got under his skin. Hollander smiled, just a small upwards twitch of his lips before he got up and left the gym saying goodnight. The smile was small, but enough that it was the last thing Ilya thought of later that night before he finished down the shower drain. Nothing happened that night between them but Ilya knew it would, it was just a matter of time and he liked the chase.
*
Six Months Later
Ottawa, Ontario
International Prospect’s Cup
January 2010
Ottawa was cold, it was boring, and his hotel room was shitty. It was some crappy chain with stained carpeted floors and a musty smell that seemed to be in everything. He didn’t care, he was barely spending any time there except to sleep and shower. He’d thought about leaving and finding a better room now that he could pay for one, but he wasn’t allowed to leave the team hotel. The other players didn’t have a signing bonus like he had. Ilya should have been happy. The freedom he’d been aching for was in arms reach. Distance from his family was nearly there, money so he could be self reliant was waiting in his account, and women loved hearing he was going to be a professional athlete and threw themselves at him. They were all nice things, yes, but he didn’t want to be alone really. He wanted to be in a room with people who actually cared about him, not his money, clothes, talent, potential or body. Him.
It was his last prospect cup. He’d be in Boston in a matter of months, maybe he’d feel better then.
He was alone, it was comfortable. The TV in the hotel room was showing New York City crowds dancing to music and celebrating the new year. This would be the year he scored his first goals as a professional athlete, and would win rookie of the year. His cellphone vibrated on the bedside table, nearly jumping off the table. There were only a few people who even had his cellphone number, and only two people ever really called him. He lifted the screen and read the name in Cyrillic with a sigh, his father was calling him endlessly. Surely wanting a report of statistics and to criticize Ilya’s game earlier that day. His father loved to critique him. He’d never been a star hockey player, what the fuck did he know?
He declined the call, the third that day and before he could even put his phone down his brother’s name flashed as the next caller. While Ilya was the son of his mother Irina, his brother Alexei was the son of his father. Alexei followed his father’s every order and wish, he was a carbon copy of him. He followed his father’s career choices. He was abusive, loud, believed in authority and rules, and believed those rules never applied to him. Alexei married a woman much too nice for him, and Ilya had a pit in his stomach on her behalf. It was like watching a film he’d seen before when he saw Alexei’s kind wife fade into the background like his mother had before she died.
He understood why his brother acted like he did and to an extent couldn't fault him for it. If you were perfect or as close to it- you missed the beatings, and the diminishing words. Alexei was older, he had to find a way to survive growing up, but he never grew out of his impression of their father. Alexei was just as demanding and critical of his younger brother as their Dad. Especially now. Jealousy was always something that was obvious in Alexei’s treatment of Ilya. Ilya was a natural talent, he was attractive, and he was getting out of Russia. For all of Alexei’s schemes and parroting their father, it gave him his approval but it didn’t make him happy.
The phone only ever rang when they needed something from him, money, or someone to take their anger out on. Ilya accepted the call with a sigh, wondering which one it would be today. He didn’t have to wait long to find out it was both. He sighed, and asked his brother what was going on and why their Dad was calling him repeatedly. Alexei started with pleasantries, he always did when he was about to ask for something. It was more insulting that way, he thought Ilya was that stupid to be manipulated so easily. Ilya repeated his question when his brother ignored it, loud pounding music was behind his brother’s voice. No doubt he was at some party, getting drunk, snorting cocaine, and probably cheating on his wife and gambling away Ilya’s money.
“Cause you lost a fucking hockey game, idiot” his brother reminded him. They had, they’d lost to an inferior Czech team, they shouldn’t have lost. Ilya played well but their defenders sucked. It was why he was screening his father’s calls to begin with. Ilya let out a breath as laughter in the background of his brother’s call taunted him. So fucking what? He lost one game. What was Alexei doing with his life that made him so much better?
“What the fuck do you want from me Alexei?” he asked in Russian, enough of the small talk. His brother wasted no time asking for money, he had no shame. No care, just expectation. He didn’t care that this was money Ilya earned from blood and sweat and years of making his body into a machine made to play hockey. He didn’t care that Ilya had already blown through tens of thousands of dollars of his signing bonus that was meant to give him padding to start his life in America. Instead it went to his father, his useless stepmother, and his shithead brother. He told him it was gone, his brother responded by calling him a faggot.
Ilya felt his blood pressure jump, it was such a common snipe in the hockey world. He’d heard it all his life, and he accepted it and he never took it to heart. Ilya liked women and he liked men. The word didn’t offend him, but it was like a knife from his brother. He knew that his father and brother didn’t know of his sexual relationships with men. If they had, Ilya could very well be dead or jailed somewhere. Only he and the men he’d slept with knew that side of him. The suggestion from Alexei was to get under his skin, and it did, but not for the reason his brother wanted it to. His own family would sell him out in a second if they knew.
“Go fuck yourself” Ilya responded and ended the call. No sooner than his hand hitting the bed did his phone start ringing again. His father, again. He huffed a breath of annoyance and answered. They were his only living family and as much as they hated him, he couldn’t help the desire for connection. His father said all the things he expected, he criticized, demanded, told Ilya all the things he needed to do that he knew already.
*
One Week Later
The Gold Medal rematch of Russia and Canada was something Ilya could hardly contain himself for. It was another opportunity to see Hollander, play against him, and see how hard he could push himself on the ice. Ilya found himself thinking more than he cared to admit about Hollander and that night in the hotel gym. He thought about it while he was jerking off, when he was inches deep into his coaches son, or when a woman’s lips closed around him. They had barely touched that night, and it was somehow more devastating than if they had. His memory didn’t do him justice. Hollander was pretty. Not in a feminine way, in a delicate masculine way. Hollander was appealing to Ilya in more than one way, which nearly never happened. He wanted to play against him every day, and he wanted to fuck him the rest of it. Hollander met his eyes at the first face off with a hardened stare. There were no lingering looks through panted breaths or charged sexual humming between them here, only competition.
It became very clear in the second period whose game it was, and it wasn’t Russia’s. He and Hollander were trading faceoff wins, with Hollander winning more. He moved with such professional ease and composure. Ilya got some massive hits in his own rite, but his goaltender couldn’t stop Hollander and his defense couldn’t keep up. When the final horn sounded he was left with disappointment. He’d lost, again, and it hurt more as he watched Hollander skate into the handshake line with a small smile on his face. That smile broadened until it flashed teeth when he saw Ilya.
“See you in October” he said, that friendly smile and voice back. If he wasn’t so pissed, he might have smirked, clearly Hollander had remembered Ilya said something similar that last time he’d beaten him. Being in proximity to Hollander only made his competition with him flare and his interest. Ilya skated off the ice with the realization he didn’t want to wait for their first professional game in October.
*
August
Boston Hockey Complex
Training Camp
The October that he expected never came. Ilya was in the middle of Boston’s training camp in the summer on the bench during a short break when at least ten cellphones all chirped loudly with an ESPN update.
“No fucking way” one of the guys said, Ilya looked over at him while he adjusted the tape around his stick. He was a younger guy, the one with horrible stick handling but he was fast. Ilya knew he wouldn’t make it out of training camp.
“What?” one of the other guys asked.
“Shane Hollander” the guy holding the phone gasped, his eyes wide.
“Hollander what?” Ilya heard himself demand, moving to his feet. The idiot looked up at him with his mouth open and said nothing.
“Oh shit” one of the other players said.
“Montreal Metros have released Shane Hollander after Hollander suffered serious injuries during training camp” one of the players read off of the phone. Ilya felt like he’d swallowed lead.