Chapter Text
Rozanov tapped his foot, bored. Flashes of light go off again, as if he and his team changed in the last fifteen seconds since they last took photos.
Interviews after every game. Boring. Predictable. The effort to *english* After spending the last three hours on the ice or watching his teammates on the ice is monumental. It felt like a greater workout than any actual workout, as his brain was already exhausted.
A reporter lobbed another question to Rozanov’s side ”Marlow, how would you characterize your team’s performance today?”
Not directed to him, Ilya let out an internal sigh and rocked back on his chair. No English for him yet.
Marlow let out a stream of inane babble that is in no way important. Ilya counted down the minutes until this was over.
“Rozanov, same to you,” the same reporter said. Shit! What was the question? Ilya thought hard to recall and used a sentence he knew always gets a laugh.
“Was great. As usual,” Ilya said simply. Predictably, this gets a heartfelt chuckle out of the crowd. Rozanov being his usual self.
Then, out in the crowd, a second question for Rozanov.
“People in Russia were watching the game (in the middle of the night), what can you tell us about the game? It was a very important win, first one in New York this season, important in terms of score as psychologically as well?”
Ilya blinks and shakes his head, disbelieving. A question in Russian? For him? The people of Russia stayed up all night to watch him play?
It took him so long to respond, he feels clumsy in Russian as well as English. But this time the answer comes easily to him.
“Thank you for the message that people in Russia are awake and are watching the game, I'd like to thank them. The game was very important for us, we returned the break they made last game. We controlled the whole game, once we got it we never lost the lead. The bench was great, they brought us victory.”
The reporter smiled, thanked him, and said “The people of Russia are proud of you,” and resumed his seat. The whole crowd looks at him, suddenly woken up from the humdrum of a normal post game interview. Rozanov had answered a question, not only in his native Russian, but also a longer answer than any he has given to any question before.
Ilya cannot help it, he is grinning a silly smile. Hollander says that this smile makes him look ten years younger, and still he grins, hiding it behind a hand, fooling no one.
To his side, Marlow claps him across the side, happy for his friend, despite not understanding.
The rest of the interview doesn’t matter. Lights fade and the English speaking lowers to a dull roar. Even if it was one reporter, one flattering interview question, it meant everything to him.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had told him they were proud of him in his mother tongue.
***
After the next practice, Wheeler comes up to him in the locker room. Ilya frowns. Despite practice being over, Wheeler has no business in the locker room, evidenced by his crutches.
Is he gearing up for a fight? Ilya wonders. Always his first instinct. Always assuming someone has found fault with him. If so, it is strange to send a man on crutches.
Hey, captain.” Wheeler said, a respectable distance away. “Just wanted to say thank you for your comments about the bench during the last post game interview. Meant a lot to us, those who couldn’t be out there with you, but were rooting for you.”
Ilya had always liked Wheeler. Fast on his skates, he always brings his all to practice. And when Wheeler had a minor fracture due to a collision with a SF player a few weeks ago, he continued to bring his all to the bench.
Ilya stared, confused. When had he said…?
“I watched the translated interview afterwards,” Wheeler said. “ I’ll admit, we were all curious as to what you’d said because we’d never given such a long answer before. It was nice.”
Okay now Wheeler had overstepped with his touchy American nonsense. “No problem. Was true.” he responded.
He missed the look exchanged by his fellow teammates in the locker.
***
The next game, it happens again.
Ilya recognized the voice, deep and accented. It must be southern Russian, with its coarse approach and Ukrainian lilt. Raised in Moscow by an officer, Ilya has always been told he talked like an older gentleman. This was not generally a complement.
“Captain Rozanov, Boston is headed to the playoffs after an incredible blowout against New Jersey today. Can you tell us what allowed you to get by their goalkeeper again and again?”
An astute question. Ilya examined this reporter.
“Well,” he started. “I should not like to share all my secrets. Perhaps New Jersey should simply accept they are no match for Boston.”
“They’re out of the playoffs after today,” the reporter counters. “Surely you could tell us your secret to scoring today? They’ll have all of the off-season to review the footage.”
Ilya grinned like mad. This reporter had correctly deduced that there was a secret to the game today, but couldn’t figure out what it was. Perhaps he shouldn’t share how he got such an advantage, but couldn’t resist showboating, especially when he could do it so elegantly.
“Firstly, I noticed that last week, the NJ goalkeeper had an injury on his left side. It was a bruise, slightly raised,” Ilya raised his hands to gesture for the spot, near his eye. “His peripheral vision was therefore a bit narrower than normal.”
The reporter nods.
Ilya continues. “Secondly, on his left side, was a rookie straight out of Coach Brightly’s seasonal camp in Vancouver. Players coming out of there are notorious for having a weaker defense on their non-dominant side.
“This combined made it easy to pass to my talented teammate,” Ilya nods to the man in question, “Who has both a skilled eye and a killer shot. All these factors combined made it simple to skate circles around the New Jersey goalie.”
The reporter nods. He has no expression. Why would he? He is Russian.
The teammate Ilya referenced only blinks at him.
The crowd murmurs at what could have warranted such a long response, but is left wanting. Ilya does not elaborate in English.
His heart was pounding as if he had run a mile. Is this why his teammates say interviews are sometimes fun? Is it because occasionally you are asked a perfect question and get to demonstrate your absolute mastery of the material?
No matter.
Another question for Ilya, this time in English.
“Rozanov, can you tell us what technique you used against the New Jersey goalkeeper?”
Ilya grinned. “I already answer question. Goalie sucked. Rookie sucked. Bears win again. No surprise..
The reporter rolls his eyes but dutifully sits back down.
***
Marlow stands next to him on the ice, balanced on the low wall. They’re watching some of the new members take shots on goal as a warmup for their third string goalie.
“I watched your interview”, Marlow said to him. “I didn’t know that about people coming out of Coach Brightley's camp in Vancouver. How did you even hear about it?”
Ilya startled. Who the fuck rewatched their own trashy post game interview? Much less to simply hear a translation of an offhand comment his captain made.
“I don’t hear,” Ilya said. “I know. I watch,” he gestured with the universal sign of watching, swinging two fingers from his eyes to the ice and then back. “And use my fucking brain. All Vancouver kids, no other coaches in the area. Shitty defense on weak side. Smith, Lyle, Kent, all Vancouver. All shit. Is obvious.
Ilya frowns back at the players on the ice. He feels Marlow staring at him.
“Do you notice those sorts of things about everyone? Like, do you have an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone who has ever hit their ice and their weaknesses, or something?” Marlow laughs nervously. “I mean, it sounds like you go fucking Sherlock Holmes on every play before it ever even happens.”
Ilya didn’t know half of those references but decided it couldn’t be that important. “Of course I do. It is why I am best at hockey and the rest of you…” he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Play at hockey. You don’t think.” he taps his temple aggressively. “Game happens up here. I say this all the time. No one listen to me.”
Marlow is looking at him carefully. As if he has never seen him before.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess we haven’t been.”
***
When Ilya gets the call next week from his agent about a full length interview in Russian, he feels Marlow’s eyes staring at him.
But for once, someone wasn’t staring at him out of fear, or hatred, or even lust.
It was wonder.