Chapter Text
It's December 2008, and Ilya Rozanov is at the World Junior Championship at some rink in Saskatchewan, Canada. Ilya finally has a chance to meet the new and promising Shane Hollander. It’s all he’s been hearing about lately in the hockey world; it will be him and Hollander as the number 1 and number 2 NHL draft picks. He's confident that he will get picked 1st.
He just knows he will beat Hollander and team Canada in every way.
Shane Hollander has been waiting and working hard for this moment for a long time. The World Junior Championship is finally here. He’s ready to play his hardest he has ever played. Ilya Rozanov is a well-known prospect for the NHL draft, just like him. He wanted to meet him sometime before they were drafted soon. Rozanov is apparently one of the most hated opponents to play against for his chirps and easy ways to get under players' skin.
Ilya is walking outside of this shitty Canadian rink, cold as HELL, to get a quick smoke break in as his stupid fucking lighter isn't working when the golden boy himself walks up to him and says something that completely throws him off.
"Euh, on ne peut pas fumer ici?”
Hollander has more of an accent than he thought he would have.
He’s speaking French to him?
What does he even say back to him? Ilya knew people in Canada spoke French sometimes, but he could swear he had never seen a clip of Hollander speaking anything but English.
“Hi.” Ilya says and pauses for a moment.
“Shane Hollander, yes? Good to meet you.”
Shane looks at him, reacting with the same blank face before his expression changes briefly to confusion before he attempts a response.
“Uh oui…Yes. Shane Hollander, you're Ilya Rozanov.”
He smiles awkwardly at Ilya and puts his hand out to shake.
Ilya shakes his hand and then goes back to trying to smoke.
Hollander points at the no smoking sign behind Ilya and then at him before he says, “I don't know if here is the right place." He pretends to smoke “for that.”
Ilya shrugs and continues to smoke.
“It was nice meeting you, Rozanov.”
He holds out his hand for Ilya to shake again.
Ilya looks at him confused, puts his cigarette in his mouth, then smiles and shakes his hand.
“You won't be so nice when we beat you.”
Hollander once again looks lost.
“Um, could you talk slower? Maybe my English is bad. You speak very fast.”
“You won't be so happy when I beat you.” Ilya smirks.
Hollander realizes what he said, turns, and walks away, probably going back inside.
Ilya smiles and puts his cigarette back into his mouth.
The freckles…
His freckles.
Hollanders' freckles.
He looked even prettier in person up close.
He clears his throat, takes one final puff of his cigarette, and decides to head back inside before people start looking for him.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───
During the game Shane catches Rozanov watching him multiple times, mainly from the bench but also during plays a few times. He couldn't deny that he also took a few looks when he thought Rozanov wasn't looking, but it was different when he did it. He was fast and very subtle. Rozanov just stared for many seconds like he almost wanted him to know he was watching him.
He doesn't know what mind games he's playing at.
His team ends up losing; their defenses just weren't there tonight, and it doesn't help that Rozanov knows exactly how to get by them and make goals. They didn't get their asses handed to them, but they still lost by 2 goals.
Shane is waiting in the line ready to shake everyone's hands on the other team when it is Rozanov's turn to shake his.
Rozanov leans in.
“I’ll see you at the draft.”
Then winks.
HE WINKS AT HIM AND SMILES.
Shane didn't blush; he was just flushed from the exhausting game he just did.
That's it.
Nothing else.
His cheeks deepened the longer he tried to hide it.
But also he’ll be thinking about this day for a while, probably until the draft, when he can see Rozanov again. Just because he makes him so curious.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───
6 months later.
Shane is in LA for the hockey draft; he might be second to be chosen, but he is still one of the youngest players to be drafted, so he takes that as an accomplishment. He has to go line up for photos now and stand next to Rozanov and some guy who is older than both of them and all seems too excited for third place; he gets it. He is also excited to be among the top draft picks of the NHL this year, but he isn't as openly expressing it like that guy is.
Shane is maybe even a little annoyed right now if he was being honest; he has Rozanov being as smug as can be right next to him. They are so close that their arms are rubbing against each other.
"Okay, number 3 is excited," says the photographer taking their pictures.
“Can you guys show me your numbers?”
“There is number 3, okay, and number 1. Where is number two at."
“There we go.”
“Can you show me a smile, please? There we go, thank you.”
Shane put on the fakest big smile he could at that moment, then the photos were all over, and he met back up with his parents to go talk to people, toast, and do everything else people tended to do at these kinds of things.
He mainly just stood there while his parents talked to people because he was still trying to learn English. He knew more than he did a year ago, hell, even 6 months ago, but it was hard to be fluent in and understand it while people talked so fast to him.
He was kind of zoning in and out of his head, still in shock of everything happening. He had no idea what his mom and Montreal's manager were really talking about. That was when his mom rubbed his shoulder, and what he thinks she said was it was an honor to be a part of Montreal. He wasn't 100% sure, though, so he just nodded his head and said yes.
It was then when he looked up at the balcony when he spotted him. He and Rozanov were staring at each other. They locked eyes for a moment before Shane looked away.
Ilya was talking with his dad and the team manager of Boston.
He drank his water while smiling at the Boston team manager.
“We aren't passing up a kid this strong and with those hands, not in Boston, Mr. Rozanov. He is a very natural number one pick; congratulations again.”
“He’s strong but will need lots of discipline. He is, how do you say it, lazy.” His dad says.
Ilya’s eyes immediately fill with sadness, but not surprise.
He’s the number one pick for the whole NHL this year; he should be ecstatic and should be celebrating, but he knows that would be silly considering he has so much he could improve on.
The manager laughs and says, “I find that hard to believe seeing how he plays.”
Ilya looks, drinks his water, and smiles; then he responds.
“I promise to work very hard for you.”
“I have no doubt that you will, son," and then he shakes Ilya’s hand.
"Помолчи и послушай.”
Ilya obeys his dad's orders and stays quiet for the rest of the conversation.
His dad is probably referring his ‘laziness’ to his depressive episodes and also his mom’s.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───
The next morning at 6 am.
Shane couldn't sleep a wink the last two nights. He's been so stressed out about the draft, seeing Rozanov again and just all the events that go with being Shane Hollander. He knows his mom means well, but all the advertisements, commercials, brand deals, and just social media contracts with the press on top of that was just a lot to handle.
Honestly, Shane really feels like he hasn't slept that great in months, but these last few nights have been killers.
So he decided to just get out of bed, shower, and go get a coffee to see if that will boost any of his energy. He knows he is on this new macrobiotic diet, and that doesn't allow any kind of coffee, but he is so tired.
Around 6:20 am he is showered and ready to go to this cute coffee shop he found when googling cafes around. By 6:35 he is waiting in line when he doesn't realize he is next to order; he must have zoned out for a minute there. Whoops. His legs felt like lead when he moved up to the counter.
“Hi, um, could... I have coffee black, please?” He feels his face heat a bit. He feels like an outsider.
“Sure name, please?”
"Shane, thank you.”
He steps out from in front of the counter and looks around for a spot to sit at; he rubs his eyes until the skin is raw, only for the world to stubbornly stay blurry. His eyes burned. All he needs is just some coffee as a pick-me-up, and he should be fine.
He sits down at a small table in the back right corner and sits there for a moment before he pulls out his phone to keep himself distracted. It might be a minute before he gets his coffee because evidently he is stuck in the morning rush where everyone is getting their drinks for work.
Ilya is at this cafe, about a 10-minute walk from his hotel, waiting in line to get his hazelnut latte around 6:45 am. When he is just looking around the store, he could swear he sees Shane Hollander slumped over at a table in the back. He doesn't put much thought into it because, firstly, Shane Hollander would never be caught dead getting coffee; it affects his stupidly perfectionist diet he is on, and secondly, he would never fall asleep in a public place like this. He is too anxious and health crazed to do that, not even minding his “boring” uptightness.
It's a few minutes later, when he’s ordered his drink and is waiting by one of the windows, when he hears the barista calling someone's black coffee for Shane repeatedly before they just put it on the counter and move on. Huh, maybe it is Hollander’s drink after all. He waits a minute or so to see if anyone will claim this abandoned coffee before he grabs it and starts walking over to the slumped figure he assumes is his rival.
“Hey Hollander.”
No response
“Hollander.”
Ilya looks at his rival and he wouldn't say he felt fondness but if he had to admit maybe the sight in front of him was kind of adorable. Hollander's chin resting against his chest, hand loosely holding his phone screen long turned black from inactivity. Ilya just stood there for a second watching the rise and fall of the man’s chest.
“Hazelnut latte for Ilya.”
He walks over to the counter and also picks up his coffee, then proceeds back to the table. He puts both of their coffees on the table and then goes and gently nudges the sleeping guy's shoulder. “Shane Hollander.” He shakes him this time.
Shane’s eyes flutter open for a second.
“Encore cinq minutes, allez-y.”
Then Shane’s eyes are closed once again, and his hands are in his lap now.
Ilya will be so honest he has no understanding of French but is almost positive that he was just told off and give him 5 minutes. That's new.
Ilya knows he is not obligated to stay here or even wake Shane up, but it just feels wrong to leave him, especially in a busy public place like this. So he sits down at the table and pulls out his phone and starts drinking his latte.
About 10 minutes later Ilya is almost done with his drink when a loud screeching noise happens. He isn't for sure what it was, but it sure startles the person he is sharing the table with. He looks across the table to see a rumpled, half-awake, red-eyed Shane Hollander.
“Good morning, sweetheart."
Shane looks over at Ilya and gives him the meanest deadpan stare, which doesn't have any heat to it at all.
It kind of reminds Ilya of an angry kitten.
“Quoi?”
Shane shakes his head and tries again.
“What?”
He looks around the cafe for a moment, probably the most confused Ilya has ever seen him and then finally looks at his long-forgotten cold coffee sitting on the table.
“Thank you.”
Ilya has never heard his sleepy morning voice before, but he is already in love with it and would be totally okay waking up to it every morning.
Ilya shrugs and then responds.
“Of course I couldn't have my rival getting poisoned or robbed because who would be second best in the league?"
Shane was still waking up and too tired to even attempt to translate whatever Rozanov just said to him, but he didn't need to understand to know it was probably an insult about how boring he was.
He yawns, and then he goes to get up, but his leg must've gotten stuck on his chair or something because the next thing Shane knows is that he is on the ground of this cafe, having Ilya Rozanov of all people give him a sympathetic look. Shane is already done with today, and it's not even 7:30 am.
Ilya gets up, stands next to him, and puts out his hand.
Shane grabs it because at this point he feels like it can't get any more embarrassing.
Once they are both up and standing, Ilya grabs his latte and hands Shane his drink.
Now that Shane is more awake, aware, and really looking, he realizes the dark bags under Rozanov's eyes and the way he is moving his mouth like he is trying to constantly hold back a yawn.
“Rough night out partying?” Shane asks.
Ilya coughs.
"No, I just couldn't really sleep last night; must've been the shitty hotel bed.”
Shane didn't know if he believed that, but he nodded.
"Well, thanks again.”
Ilya smiled.
“Goodbye Hollander.”
“Bye Rozanov.”
Shane headed back to the hotel with his cold cup of coffee he had half-drunk and was feeling many emotions all too early in the morning.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───