Chapter Text
WINTER 1996
Another usually cold day on the ice rink, the sound of the wind gushing past tall, snow-covered trees, mingled with the childish sounds of glee, mostly laughter, occasionally cut short by a whine from an injury or the loud scolding of an instructor.
A mix of voices could be heard: laid-back conversations of parents, unsolicited comments from Vermonters simply passing by, but one little voice stood out.
A heavy Russian accent, belonging to a barely six-year-old boy, strained by the little English he knew as he actively tried to use it to bond with the other children on the rink. He knew the basics, like “Hello” and “I’m Ilya” but arguably the most useful phrase for a little boy obsessed with hockey “Want to play with me?”
It had been maybe three hours since Ilya got on the rink, skating around without wanting to take a break, despite his mother calling him over several times to offer water, which he so clearly needed.
Further proven by his flushed cheeks and the sweaty curls stuck to his forehead. His only ever response was “через чуть-чуть” in her direction, promising he’d get off the ice in a minute.
Taking another shot at getting any kid that skated his way, to play with him, he saw a new face.
A little boy, wearing a jersey too big for his size effectively making him appear even smaller, running towards the rink with the biggest smile Ilya had ever seen. The boy stumbled to get his skates on and periodically lifted up his helmet, which like the jersey, was far too big for him.
From the little boy’s clumsy approach, Ilya didn’t expect much of a fair match. To his surprise, as soon as the freckled boy set foot on the ice, he effortlessly skated along the full diameter of the rink in a flash, feet crisscrossing skillfully as if he had been born to do this.
Ignoring the offer of water from his mother, Ilya skated once again towards the spot where he had last seen the tiny hockey prodigy.
He weaved through a huddle of older kids, only to find the space empty. Confused by the boy’s sudden disappearance, he heard the sharp stop of skates on the ice. Followed by a spray of ice hitting his face
“Hello! I’m Shane. Wanna play together?” The freckled face he had been searching for grinned up at him.
Confusion and shock on Ilya’s face melted into an excited “Да!” Over the moon at the invitation to play a match with his new friend, he quickly composed himself and remembered the manners his father had taught him.
“Hello, Shane. I’m Ilya. You want play with me?” he mumbled, putting all his effort into those three phrases, finally learning the name of his new friend.
Shane giggled at the rough English coming out of Ilya’s mouth, bumping his hip into him playfully.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ilya. Let’s do this!” he said, nudging Ilya towards an empty-ish space on the far left side of the rink.
Both of them quickly picked up speed, and soon a full-on race was underway, each assuming that the winner would get to choose which side they’d play on.
WINTER 1997
Shane was shimmying around in his car seat, not really trying to hide his excitement for yet another year at his favorite hockey camp, the third year in a row in fact. He was practically beaming at the thought of playing with Ilya again.
None of the other kids he’d ever played with matched his skills quite like the goofy Russian boy he had met a year prior.
“Mom, how much longer? I bet Ilya is already there and waiting! Do you think he’s waiting? I bet he is!” Shane said, bouncing his legs up and down as he tried, and failed, to control his excitement. He kept craning his neck to look past his mom’s shoulder, trying to figure out whether they were getting close.
“It’s been a year, honey. Don’t get your hopes up too much, okay?” she said, catching Shane’s eyes in the rearview mirror as she leaned back to pat his legs, signaling him to keep still. “Just ten more minutes, okay sweetheart?”
Shane huffed and settled back into his seat, though his left leg continued to bounce, the other held down gently by his mom’s hand.
He stared out the window watching snowy fields slide past, his eyes flickering to the handful of cars in the opposite lane, hoping Ilya wasn’t in one of them, heading the other way.
He had been looking forward to this winter all year. The rink was the only place where he could burn off all his energy and truly be in his element. Back home in Ottawa, he didn’t really have many friends he could skate with, so once a year his mom would drive the two of them all the way to Vermont as a little road trip.
It was about a four-hour drive, but there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for her only son, who had turned out to be far more obsessed with hockey than she’d ever anticipated.
“Mom! Mom! We’re here!” Shane leapt in his seat at the sight of the sign “VERMONT CHILDREN’S HOCKEY SCHOOL · Since 1978” aggressively tapping against the window and pointing towards an empty parking space, which his mom took moments later.
Shane’s seatbelt was already off by the time his mom walked around to the back door to open it for him, unwilling to wait a second longer to get on the ice. He jumped out of the car, grabbing his helmet and skates in the process, tugging at his mom’s jacket as she pulled out the rest of his equipment out of the trunk, his hockey stick sticking out of the bag.
Running as fast as his legs would let him, Shane made his way to the bench, fumbling with his laces as he couldn’t wait a second longer to get on the ice. He scanned the rink, searching for a familiar face, while his mom knelt down and started tying his skates for him.
“I see your dad hasn’t gotten around to improving your lace-tying skills, huh?” she sighed, struggling to tighten the laces on Shane’s perpetually moving feet.
Shane could barely sit still, shuffling from one end of the bench to the other, his eyes darting across the ice. Excitement slowly twisting into anxiety.
What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he already left? What if he found another, better, kid to play with?
The “what-ifs” swirled around in his mind as his mom finished tying his skates, handed him his hockey stick, and gently nudged him towards the rink.
“Go on, Shane. I’ll be over there with the other parents, alright? If you need anything, holler, okay? Now, show ’em who’s boss!” She leaned down to press a quick kiss to the top of his helmet.
Shane turned around to say something, but she was already walking away by the end of her little pep-talk, heading towards the far right side of the bleachers where a handful of parents mingled, cups of warm tea in hand.
Alright, Shane, get out of your head for a second, you can do this! he said to himself as he leapt over the barrier separating him and the frozen water in front of him.
He was experienced enough for a six-year-old that he could skate freely, without needing to be checked on by one of the many instructors mingling around the rink. Circling the ice, periodically lifting his helmet to see better, trying to make it seem like he was practicing outside-edge skating or something, when in fact his true objective was something far more juvenile.
Passing a group of pre-teens, something made his ears perk up, a heavy Russian accent, barely audible over the ruckus of a few twelve-year-olds.
And there he was.
Blonde curls drenched with sweat poking out from beneath the hard shell of a helmet, embellished with a white “R” on the front. He flashed a missing front tooth as he laughed at something one of the older boys said, bumping his helmet against Ilya’s.
Shane was about to speak up, to call out to the friend he hadn’t seen in over a year. Eagerly skating closer to the group, he caught a glimpse of one of the older boy’s faces, laughter and smugness shifting into annoyance at the sight of him. He slowed to a stop, the arm he had raised to wave falling back to his side as a familiar, embarrassed heat crept up his cheeks.
He couldn’t see Ilya anymore, the older boy’s puffed-out chest blocking his view.
Shane skated away, his shoulders slumping, realizing he had arrived too late. Ilya had already found his place among the older, objectively “cooler” boys. He knew this feeling all too well. No matter how hard he tried to belong, he always seemed to be the one left out, an overly excited, obnoxious nuisance.
Dejected, he made his way to the right side of the rink, where his mom had said she’d be if he needed anything. Reaching the barrier, he opened the small gate and sat down on the bench, his hockey stick clattering dramatically beside him. Struggling to get a grip on his laces through his reinforced gloves.
The excitement had already melted away, now he just wanted to see his mom and maybe have a cup of warm chamomile tea to cheer him up. Directing his gaze back down at his half-untied skate.
A cold spray of ice hit his face. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape the sting of the particles.
“Ух ты, Shane! You are here!”
Shane’s face lit up immediately, you could practically feel the happiness radiating off him. In a split second, he jumped up and tackled Ilya to the ground in a hug, both of them landing hard on the ice below.
“Shane?! What are you doing to that boy?!”
“Илья, ты как?! Что произошло?”
Two young women ran up, each conveying a different kind of urgency, and embarrassment over their sons causing a ruckus.
The boys just lay there, laughing, giggling and tussling around on the ice together. If someone didn’t know any better, they’d think a fight was happening.
Shane’s mom rushed over, grabbing him by the scruff of his jersey and pulling him away, while Ilya’s mother tried to do the same, calming her equally rabid son.
“Shane! What’s gotten into you? You don’t just tackle people because they don´t want to play with you!” she sighed, disappointed at the unexpected behavior, dragging him up to his feet and piercing him with a disciplinary look.
“No, Mom! I didn’t do anything! I was just happy to see him again. I got excited!” he laughed, trying to free himself from her iron grip and defend his honor before darting back to Ilya. The two immediately resumed giggling and roughing up each other’s sweaty hair freed from the helmets that were now tossed somewhere on the ice.
Dumbfounded, the two women approached one another, trying to keep their composure despite the embarrassment their sons had caused.
“Yuna Hollander.” one said, reaching out her hand to the gorgeous woman in front of her, guilt written all over her face. “I apologize for my son’s “passionate” outburst of happiness. I thought I could leave him alone for a few minutes, guess not.”
Laughing, clearly finding the situation hilarious, the other woman returned the handshake. “Irina Rozanova. Nice to meet you.” She shot a look at Ilya, who stood by her side trying, and failing, to hide his amusement. “I’m used to Ilya picking, how do you say, useless fights.”
Yuna stumbled back a bit at the mention of the name, Shane had been drilling into her head for the past year. The heat slowly left her cheeks as she found the whole interaction hilarious.
“So, you’re the famous Ilya, Shane’s been babbling about for the past year. It’s a pleasure to finally meet my son’s hero.”
Ilya looked at her outstretched hand confused, clearly not understanding a word she’d said, but he shook it anyway.
“Hello, I’m Ilya. Can Shane play with me? He’s good!” he asked, looking up at both women, hope shining in his eyes.
Yuna and Irina exchanged a look, amused by the politeness of the request and the reunion of their sons. Knowing that denying it would only lead to whining and pleading, they really had no choice.
“Hm, I guess we have no choice but to say yes, now do we? We’ll be sitting over there on the bleachers, alright? Holler if you need anything.”
Irina turned back to Ilya. “No more fights, да?”
Then, more softly but firmly: “Будь паинькой, Илья.” informing him that, if there is any funny business, she had no issue with leaving early.
“I’m happy you are here, дурак.” Ilya said, grinning.
“I’m so excited to beat you again! Last to the net is a chicken!” Shane shot back.