Chapter Text
December, 2008
Regina, Saskatchewan
“You’re not supposed to smoke out here.”
Ilya Rozanov turned just as a flame flared from the tip of his lighter, igniting the cigarette between his lips. “Huh?”
Shane swallowed. “Sorry, I just meant—there’s a smoking area over there.” He resisted the urge to point. “Never mind.” He held out his hand instead. “I’m Shane. Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself, and I just have to say, you’re a really incredible player, you know. You’re incredible to watch. I sat in on your practice earlier.”
Slowly, Ilya took his hand and shook it, almost limp with disinterest. “Yes. I know. I saw.”
“Oh, yeah.” Shane wondered if he should admit that he had also seen Rozanov sitting in on Canada’s practice, but unlike the Russian prodigy, he wasn’t trying to be a dick. “Well. You’ve played really well in the tournament so far.”
“Yes.”
Shane glanced around. There was nothing around them, nothing to look at or comment on. On the other side of the parking lot, he saw a few of the other Team Russia players loitering near the fence, and he wondered why Rozanov wasn’t with them. He doubted they cared that their star player was smoking. “Are your parents here with you?”
“No.”
“Oh, that sucks, sorry. I guess it would be hard to travel. My family is from Ottawa, so… it’s actually pretty far away from Regina, but they made the flight.”
Ilya didn’t respond to that, just shrugged.
Shane shoved his hands into his pockets. “Cold, huh?” He should probably just leave.
“Rozanov, is this little pidor bothering you?”
Shane flinched. He looked up. The three teenagers he had seen by the fence were swaggering up, all dressed for the weather in toques and tracksuits. The one who had spoken was the biggest of the lot, but Shane had seen him on the ice, and he was barely competent even as an enforcer. The Russian slur slipped off his lips easily, like he had said it many times before, and Shane knew he should really, really leave.
“No, I’m pretty sure he was just leaving,” Rozanov answered, meeting Shane’s eyes and smiling even though he was speaking in Russian. “And if he doesn’t, I was planning on making him cry right here before I make him cry on the ice tomorrow. Think I can get him running back to his mommy?”
Shane felt himself go bright red in a sudden, violent flush of anger. He thought of his grandfather, who had never shouted except at hockey matches on the television, and the vitriol that would spew from his mouth then and only then, and it came to him. “Ey, poshel na khuy! Idi na hui, kozyol.” He wanted to spit, to emphasize his point, but he refrained. Even still, it was an unusual outburst for Shane Hollander, extremely out of character for him, and even at the World Junior Championships, most of the players already knew his reputation for clean games and a meek personality. The Slavic players were gaping, open-mouthed, and Shane knew why.
What he had just said hadn’t been very polite, after all.
Rozanov cocked his head. “You speak Russian? Or just the curse words?”
“I speak Russian,” he snapped, defensive and angry, turning to glare at the Russian player who had called him—had called him a…. Shane looked away. He knew he was on edge, and now he knew that it had been a mistake to even try to be friendly with Rozanov. (He was also keenly aware that he was alone, and Rozanov was not). “Why? Do I not look Russian to you?” he scoffed.
“No, not really,” Ilya said. Some of his teammates laughed, although they mostly seemed surprised that Shane was speaking to them at all. Rozanov didn’t laugh, though. He looked… curious. “Are you Russian?” He raised the cigarette to his mouth and blew smoke into the cold, grey sky.
“Go fuck yourself,” Shane repeated, feeling heat climbing into his face from rage and humiliation.
“Why can you speak Russian?” Rozanov pressed. “I’m just asking. I want to know. Almost everyone here seems to assume that we should all speak English.” His teammates were closing in, and Shane felt very nervous. He had never been in a fight before, not on the ice and certainly not off it, but right now Rozanov and three of the Russian team’s starting line were surrounding him, watching Shane. And he’d just insulted their captain.
“My grandparents met at university, in Moscow,” Shane said, hoping it sounded casual, but he knew he was a bad actor. He couldn’t help the way his feet shifted back on his heels, probably making it very obvious that he wanted to run. But that was exactly what Rozanov had said to his teammates, which meant that Shane had to stay put. “My grandfather was Mongolian. My grandmother was Japanese, but she loved Russian literature. They taught me to speak it.” He didn’t want to go into his family history with Rozanov, but he also didn’t have any other explanation ready for him. Russian was a rare second language in the US, and he doubted Rozanov would buy a line about mandatory high school language requirements.
Rozanov frowned. “Do Mongolians speak Russian?”
Another thing about the Russian team: like most of the European teams, it was entirely white. “Mostly they speak Mongolian,” he said dryly, “but some do, yeah. It’s, uh, a Soviet Era thing, I guess. Most students and businesspeople in Mongolia studied or worked in the Soviet Union. My granddad grew up speaking it in school, and then he taught me.”
Shane hated this little history lesson, but he had given it a million times. He wished that when people asked him why he could speak Russian, he could say, “My granddad was Mongolian,” and leave it at that, but people always had more questions. Sometimes he would end his explanation with “My grandparents went to University in Moscow,” or let people assume he was talking about his dad’s parents or something. But that felt dishonest. It felt like the easy way out.
Rozanov took another drag of his cigarette. “Huh,” he said. “That explains why you speak like a grandpa.”
Shane glowered. “Okay, well, whatever,” he said in English, at the end of the rope. If Rozanov was done with him, then he was done with Rozanov. “Just wanted to say good luck, that’s all,” but he didn’t extend his hand a second time.
“No, wait,” Rozanov said, “you were just starting to get interesting! Why are you speaking in English again?” His teammates snickered.
“What, I'm more interesting when I'm speaking in Russian?”
“Yes,” he said, to more laughter. Shane wanted to sneer at the guys around him, following Rozanov’s every lead and bend and whisper, but he knew a few guys on Team Canada who were like that too. He hoped that he didn’t visibly revel in it as much as Rozanov clearly did. “I instantly have more respect for any single person who can speak Russian than any person who cannot. That’s what everyone thinks about English in this country, after all.”
“You’re thinking of America,” Shane said. “Canada is a bilingual country.” Not so much Saskatchewan, as most French speakers lived in Quebec, but Shane wasn’t going to bring that up if Rozanov didn’t know it already.
“I didn’t say bilingual,” Rozanov said. “I said, speak Russian. I don’t give a fuck if someone is bilingual, but I think everyone should speak Russian.”
“Very world domination of you,” Shane said, hoping that the sarcasm didn’t trip awkwardly off his tongue. He was fluent in Russian, both from his childhood with his grandparents as his primary babysitters, and later, when he and his mother took lessons together after they died, but he hadn’t had much practice speaking it with strangers. Especially not young strangers.
Rozanov snorted. “Why the fuck were you trying to talk to me in English? You should know better, Hollander—they say you’re the smartest hockey player in the Championships right now. You should have known better.”
This triggered another wave of anger, and Shane scoffed, loud and hard, taking a step back. Rozanov didn’t even know what he was saying, didn’t know how microaggressive he was being, because he didn’t need to know. His team was entirely white, and no one on it was going to call him out. Hockey was, in general, a very white sport. The World Junior Championships even more so. Japan was the only country outside of Europe, other than Canada and America, that had ever made it into the Top Division, and that had been in the early nineties.
Shane, truly, was sick to death of hearing how fucking smart he was.
“I don’t like it when people assume I can’t speak English,” Shane said, short and angry, even though the real answer was that he had heard Rozanov speaking to some local reporters in English earlier and figured that he was fluent or wanted to practice. “I was trying to afford you the same respect. My mistake. See you on the ice, Rozanov.”
He turned and walked away to some laughter from the other Russians, and Shane knew his shoulders were around his ears.
+++
“Hollander! Ey, Hollander!”
Shane looked up, then immediately regretted it.
He had known, of course, who was calling him.
His teammates, gathered in the lobby of the hotel they were staying in, crouching over a coffee table to eat their meager dinner, swung their heads back and forth, looking between Rozanov and Shane. His coach, sitting off to the side, cleared her throat.
“Hollander!”
He had seen Ilya Rozanov as soon as he strutted inside, because he was hard to miss. Even on the burly Russian team, he was one of the taller players, and their heavy winter jackets made them all look bigger. They had drawn the attention of the other teams scattered across the lobby common area as soon as they clomped in, mostly because everyone knew by now that the Russians had been staying at a different hotel. It was late, almost 9:00 pm, but the entire Russian team had come slogging in with their coaches, dragging suitcases and with duffels of gear slung over their shoulders.
Shane had been trying to ignore them. He especially tried to ignore the loud, argumentative, disjointed English of the coach, who was having a very hard time communicating with the receptionist. From the corner of the room, Shane had a hard time making out exactly what he was saying, but he had been glad for it. He had hoped that being farther away would keep Rozanov from noticing him.
No such luck.
He made the mistake of glancing up, trying to gauge how many of his teammates were staring at him, and caught Rozanov’s eyes from across the room.
“Yes, you, Hollander, I’m talking to you,” Rozanov said, clear exasperation written across his exhausted face. He swung his arm dramatically, calling Shane over. “I know you can understand me, come on.”
Shane glanced over Rozanov’s entire team. They slumped over the front desk, both the adults and the athletes, and most of them were looking between Shane and Rozanov in confusion, the argument with the receptionist apparently stalled by Rozanov’s disruption. But their coaches and managers seemed as enamored with their star player as his teammates did, and they didn’t tell Rozanov to shut up, even though the receptionist was asking him to lower his voice.
“Shane?” his coach asked.
“Sorry,” Shane said to her. “I guess he wants to talk. Do you mind…?”
She blinked at him. “Uh. No. If you don’t have an issue, I don’t.”
“Okay.” Shane stood up. “Be back in a moment.”
Everyone was watching him. Pretty much the whole lobby had looked up when Rozanov started shouting, and now they were watching Shane’s progression across the wide room toward the despondent-looking Team Russia.
“What do you want, Rozanov?” he asked when he was close enough that he didn’t need to shout.
Rozanov waved a hand dismissively. “Russian, Hollander, Russian,” he said, and abruptly lunged forward and grabbed Shane’s biceps. Shane dug his heels in, but Rozanov’s grip strength was insane, and Shane stumbled to a stop in front of the desk. “Hollander speaks Russian fluently. He can translate for us.”
“Translate?” Shane blanked. “No, no, I can’t! I am not at all capable of translating for, uh,” he was going to say ‘for adults,’ but that sounded childish, so he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever translated for anybody in my life. Not in Russian, at least.”
Rozanov tilted his head. “You speak other languages too?”
“French.”
“Perfect!” Rozanov slapped his hands on the counter and pointed at Shane as he leaned over it, pushing into the receptionist’s space. “He speaks French, too,” he said loudly. “He will help.”
“Wait,” Shane objected, but he said it in Russian, so it probably wasn’t very effective. “What’s going on? Why are you, um,” he glanced at Rozanov’s enormous, scary-looking coach. “I thought you guys were at a different hotel.”
“We were,” Rozanov began, but his coach finally cut him off.
“Power went out,” the man said. He had a deep voice and a grumbly accent that Shane couldn’t identify, but Shane could still understand him. “We might be Russian, kid, but we’re not quite capable of sleeping through a Canadian winter without any heat. Neither of our translators were staying with us, and I haven’t gotten a fucking response from either. I know Rozanov here is a real charmer, calling you over like that, but do you think you could give us a hand?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” Shane folded as soon as the adults looked at him, and he saw the way Ilya grinned.
The situation was not difficult to untangle once Shane communicated the full story. The Russian coach had contacted the event organizers for the WJC, who had managed to find them rooms at Shane’s hotel, but the organizers had booked them under the wrong coach’s name and gotten the numbers of the available rooms incorrect. The receptionist seemed relieved to be speaking to Shane, even though he was doing his best to parrot the coach’s words directly, and it only took a few minutes before she held out a fresh stack of hotel cards. Except that she held them out to Shane.
Shane held up his hands. “I’m just translating,” he said, nodding to the coach.
The coach put a large, meaty hand on Shane’s shoulder and reached for the cards. “Thank you, kid, you’re a lifesaver.” Shane flinched when he suddenly barked, loudly and very close to his ear, “All of you, in a fucking line! And in order! Not a fucking word, Rozanov!”
Rozanov winked at Shane.
“Hey, Shane,” his own coach said, walking up casually. “Everything alright?”
“Yes, Coach.”
The Russian coach slapped his heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Good kid,” he said loudly, as if the entire lobby hadn’t already been watching curiously. “Good Russian.”
Shane’s coach nodded sedately but didn’t say anything. “We’re about to turn in, Shane,” she said. “Big day ahead. Let’s go, okay?”
Shane was eager to shimmy away from the enormous Russian man. “Yes, thank you, okay.” He glanced at the Russian team. “Glad I, uh, glad I could help.”
“Spasibo, Hollander,” Ilya cooed in a sing-song tone. His coach barked at him to shut up. Shane nodded once, awkwardly, and followed his coach’s heels closely back to their table in the lobby, where most of the team was already standing with their bags repacked.
“God, Hollander,” his coach muttered as they walked away. “If they beat us tomorrow after you found them a place to sleep, that is not going to feel good.”
+++
It didn’t.
But in the handshake lineup, he still looked Rozanov in the eye and spoke Russian when he said, "Congratulations."
Rozanov held onto his hand, halting the glide of Shane’s skates. He put a hand on his upper arm, and Shane forced himself to smile. Cameras were flashing, and someone was probably filming them as Rozanov said, “You are a very good sport, Shane Hollander. Not a bad player, either.” He smirked. “And I always like a man who speaks Russian.”
“Rozanov!” his coach shouted, waving him over.
Rozanov winked. “See you at the draft.”
“See you,” Shane said, responding by rote, and then feeling his face go a little blank. He skated away quickly, let them put a silver medal around his neck, and tried not to catch Rozanov’s eye again.
+++
June, 2009
Los Angeles, California
“Shane fucking Hollander. I am so fucking glad to see you!”
Shane turned his back on coaches and sponsors, body reacting to the familiar drawl. “Are you?” he asked, surprised as Ilya Rozanov sauntered up to him and took his hand in a firm grip, smiling slyly at him.
Recently, his face and Rozanov’s had been everywhere. Together.
It was that damn photo on the ice, shaking hands post-game, close to each other despite their opposing team colors. The story of Shane’s translation for the Russian team had spread like wildfire, and, at some point, it had morphed into the claim that he and Rozanov had become fast friends in the brief period where they had both played as their respective countries' rising stars. People called it a good example of sportsmanship. They said Rozanov and Hollander were going to represent the league well. They talked about what a strange coincidence it was that Hollander already knew Russian, and speculated as to why, and commended how fucking smart he was.
They’d barely shared three conversations, but several people that night had already asked Shane where Rozanov was. Like he was his keeper.
Shane glanced back at the huddle of important white men his mom had abandoned him with and gestured Rozanov into the circle. The draft was about to begin, so many people were watching the two of them, some with knowing smirks, some with frowns. “I’m sure all of you know Ilya Rozanov,” Shane introduced.
“My English is terrible,” Rozanov declared, drawing laughter from them with an ease that made Shane jealous. He clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder once again. “At WJC, Hollander was, uh, helping. Very helping, yes?”
Shane gave Rozanov a side-eyed glance. He was pretty fucking sure he’d heard him speak better English in interviews before tonight, even six months ago. Rozanov smiled back pleasantly, so Shane forced his lips up, mimicking him.
“I’m sure Shane wouldn’t mind translating for you, Ilya,” responded one of the owners of the Admirals. He was watching Rozanov with an almost salivatory gleam in his eyes.
“What did he say?” Rozanov asked glibly.
Shane, for once, wished he had a drink in his hand, but they were in America and he was sober. “I fucking know you know what he said,” Shane answered, keeping his tone even.
“Oh, that’s nice of him!” Rozanov responded, and Shane almost laughed, surprising himself. “Nice guy, Hollander, right?” He grinned stupidly, putting on some caricature that Shane didn’t quite understand. “Tell Mr. Big-and-Mighty that his fly is down and his shoes are untied. I want to see the bald spot on the top of his head when he looks down—I need a mirror to check that my hair looks good.”
Shane almost choked. “Rozanov’s a huge fan of the Admirals. He visited New York to watch their last playoff game. Scott Hunter sure was on a tear this season, huh?”
“How do you know I visited New York? And don’t put words in my mouth—I would never compliment Scott Hunter.”
“He really thought they had a chance for the Cup, but if Hunter keeps playing at that level, this year might be the one.”
The Admirals’ owner lit up, opening his mouth to respond, but Rozanov cut him off with a loud burst of laughter. Shane cracked up, too, then quickly tried to hide his mouth.
“I suspect we’re being made fun of, Joe,” one of the other guys, a sports anchor for one of the larger networks, said, but his smile was wry and amused.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Richter-”
“No, no, it’s okay.” He waved them off. Rozanov was still snickering, but Shane felt a little shocked at himself. These men were important, and he was not the type of person who made fun of important people. “It’s good to see some camaraderie between you two—in the past, we’ve typically expected a lot of animosity between the most likely early draft picks. A lot of competitiveness in the game makes it off the ice. Too much, sometimes. This,” he gestured between them, “is genuinely nice to see.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Is all good fun,” Rozanov said. “Shane is good friend.” Shane glanced at him. Rozanov was grinning, wide and hard. “Won’t stop me from beating him, but still, good friend.”
“That’s what I like to hear!” Richter said, laughing.
“So, Shane,” asked the Admirals’ owner, “how on earth do you speak Russian so well?”
Shane gritted his teeth.
Rozanov grabbed him by the wrist. “We are starting, I think. And I will be picked first, so I cannot be late.”
And damn him, but he was right. Shane was drafted second, and after the silver medal the winter before, even the minor setback felt cutting.
They held up their new jerseys, Ilya grinning like a loon next to Shane. Shane wanted to hate him.
But, when he glanced out the corner of his eye, and saw Rozanov already watching him back, he noticed a sincerity in his smile that hadn’t been there earlier. Pride, yes, but who wouldn’t be proud to be drafted first in the league? This was different from Rozanov’s typical cockiness.
He looked like he had just proved a point to someone, and he knew it.
When the cameras lowered, Shane held out his hand to Rozanov. “Pozdravlyayu,” he said. “Congratulations. Really, man. You’re a great fucking player.”
There was something in Rozanov’s eyes, then. Something Shane hadn’t seen before, and it wasn’t just the reflection of a million cameras flashing as all the photographers rose back up to capture this moment.
Shane got the feeling that Rozanov had needed to hear that.
He took his hand under the hot bevvy of lights. “It’s something I can be proud of,” he said slowly, “to have you come in second after me.” Shane thought he understood what he meant, and felt his smile soften. Just a little. Then Rozanov jerked his head. “You should be ashamed, though. Korogyi almost beat you—that’s embarrassing."
Shane laughed, real and genuine, and every camera in the room caught the moment when Rozanov started laughing too.
(Unfortunately, their words were later translated and aired across every major network, and Korogyi pretty much shunned Shane from then on, but in the moment, after such a devastating disappointment, it still felt good to laugh).
+++
They stumbled upon each other in the gym later that night. Apparently, neither of them could sleep. So they ran next to each other, bumping up the speed and incline of the treadmills until they were stumbling, breathless from exercise and laughter, hands trying to slap the buttons of each other’s machines until Shane finally gave up and Ilya stumbled off after him, brushing into each other, sweaty hands on sweaty shoulders, legs pressed together as they collapsed on the floor and shared a water bottle.
“Not bad,” Ilya purred.
Shane stared at the sweat dripping down his throat, trailing onto the golden cross that sat so warm on his skin.
He lifted Ilya’s water bottle and put the nozzle between his lips.
+++
December, 2009
Ottawa, Ontario
“Okay, boys, smile, we’re gonna get some shots just with you—yup, just like that—could you, actually, Mr. Rozanov, could you—Shane, do you mind telling Ilya-?”
“You are so goddamned annoying,” Shane said, and Rozanov immediately nodded and gave a thumbs-up to the cameraman directing them, shifting into the position they had asked him to. “Why do you always pretend like you don’t know English? I mean, they’re going to figure it out. You do just fine in interviews, eventually someone is going to realize that you only play stupid around me.”
And why was Ilya Rozanov playing stupid around Shane Hollander? Just to inconvenience him? To make fun of people whose jobs were dedicated to making them look good?
“That’s great, that’s great! Yeah, hold each other’s hands a little higher now—Shane, can you tilt a little towards us? Okay, looking good, gentlemen!”
They had been asked to do most of the promotional materials for this year's WJC. This was just one of many photo shoots, but hopefully, it would be their last. It made sense, given that they were already drafted and as No. 1 and No. 2 in the NHL, and Shane didn’t mind because they were paying them for the extra work, but he knew the real reason they had been called in. They both did.
After the NHL draft, ESPN presenter Carter Richter ran a whole segment on the two of them. Not just on their performances at the WJC and their careers leading up to that point, but on them, specifically. Rozanov and Hollander. He called them “unlikely friends,” and overnight, everyone was obsessed.
The viral video of their exchange after the draft, making fun of Korogyi and snickering like children, had featured prominently.
Sometimes, the NHL did this. It was easy and engaging to spin a story about two players' relationship, be it friendly or antagonistic. Most hockey fans enjoyed the competitiveness of the game, and enjoyed the violence as well, so rivalries tended to blow up more than feel-good stories about the best players in the league getting along, or attending the other’s children’s bat mitzvahs or christenings or whatever, but apparently, when it came to Shane and Rozanov, the people couldn’t get enough.
“You think I am playing stupid?” Rozanov asked. They were wearing suits and they weren’t on the ice. Shane felt a little hot, and he felt shorter than usual without his skates, and he was sure that his tie was sitting too high on his neck. “That must mean you think I’m secretly smart.”
“I think you speak English better than you pretend. You know they’re going to translate this, right?”
“Yes. So stop giving away my secrets, Hollander.”
“Okay, boys, just smile for a second? Don’t mean to interrupt, but we need some still photos. Great, thank you!”
Rozanov snickered. Shane bit down on his cheek to keep his smile from getting too large, too genuine. He was still holding Rozanov’s hand, and it was warm and dry against him. They had the same callouses, he realized.
“Okay, wonderful. That’s all we need from you guys today. Good luck tomorrow!”
The finals. Canada was undefeated, and so was Russia. Shane and Rozanov were being touted as some of the best underage players the tournament had ever seen.
And, apparently, they were also best friends.
“See you tomorrow, bestie,” Rozanov said, playing into it as always. He let go of Shane’s hand, and Shane held it there, suspended, before he remembered to let it drop. “I will bring tissues to dry your eyes when you come in second place.” He tilted his head. “Again.”
“Never going to happen, Rozanov,” Shane said. And he made sure of it.
He got the fucking gold, and Ilya still managed to smile at him when they gave him the silver.
+++
July, 2010
Toronto, Ontario
“Hollander! Good buddy-friend, hello! Welcome to Toronto, we are filming commercial, so much artistic merit, so much integrity for us, professional athletes, yay!”
Shane was already laughing. Rozanov was fucking annoying, but it was crazy how much he made Shane laugh. “God, you’re such an idiot,” he said, breaking away from his agent as he stepped up to Rozanov, who had arrived first and was partially dressed in CCM gear. On a whim, and without really thinking about it, he grabbed Rozanov around the shoulders and pulled him into a hug.
He felt Rozanov tense. Shane nearly whipped away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the back of a phone, the camera already trained on them.
Rozanov’s arms rose around his shoulders and he clapped Shane hard on the back. Shane took the easy out and returned the gesture, casual, manly, and pulled back quickly. Their chests separated, though they left their hands where they were, gripping each other’s shoulders and biceps.
“Mne ochen' zhal,” he murmured, apologizing and hoping the camera would not be able to read his lips. “I wasn’t thinking-”
“I know, I am totally irresistible,” Rozanov said, cutting him off with an affable, untroubled grin. “Some people say it is my accent, but you prove otherwise. My face inspires you, doesn’t it?”
Another laugh, mostly made of relief, bubbled out of Shane’s mouth. “Your face pisses me off, that’s what it does,” he said.
He was still holding Rozanov.
He dropped his hands to his side and stepped back.
“Okay, Shane, your dressing room is down there, this is Melissa, she’ll show you around. Ilya, let's get you back on the ice, we’ll do a few solo shots with just you—Shane, we’ll be doing yours later, at the end of the shoot, okay?”
“Got it,” he said.
He didn’t look over his shoulder at Rozanov as he was led down the darkened hallways of the empty rink.
He did not.
+++
Yuna Hollander had been putting Shane in front of camera crews for years. Hockey was an expensive sport, and modeling was a way that Shane could contribute to his own dream. He was happy enough to do it, and he knew that these types of gigs comprised a large part of any athlete’s revenue, but it wasn’t fun.
It usually wasn’t fun.
“And we skate in, and look at us stop on a dime, so talented, so focused, wow, we are so intense, and we look hot, damn Hollander, we look so hot, and then we look up, and we fucking lock eyes, yes we do, and now, smile Hollander, smile for the camera-”
Shane broke into laughter, standing up and slipping backward on his skates. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he called to the crew. He waved a gloved hand at Rozanov. “He’s being a dick, making me laugh!”
“That’s alright,” the director called. “This is supposed to be fun, we want you guys to look like you’re having fun—but let's try to get the shot, okay? Ilya, we can see your mouth moving on the monitor. Let's take it again.”
“Sorry!” Ilya called out, but he was grinning. He winked at Shane, his visor reflecting the spotlights trained on them. “But we do look hot.”
Shane flushed. His smile slid away, and he swallowed. He skated back to the other side of the ring.
“Theme is friendly rivalry,” the director called. “We want competitiveness, we want aggression, but at the end of the day, we want to enjoy a good game! This is good sportsmanship.”
“What?” Ilya asked loudly, mouth opening wide around the word.
“There’s no good translation into Russian,” Shane called to him across the ice. They were both in the shadows now, but the empty ring echoed with his voice. “I don’t think you could understand the concept.”
“He is bullying me!” Ilya said in English. “You can’t understand, but I am bullied!”
“Okay, guys,” the director said, and Shane focused because he could hear laughter in his voice, but there was also an edge of frustration. “I know, I know, but let’s try to get the shot, alright?”
They skated in. They stopped hard, chipping ice over each other’s laces. Their sticks hit the ice in a synchronized clatter. They looked up, frowning, and then their mouths split into smiles and they collapsed forward, leaning on their sticks as they broke into giggles.
“How’s that look?” Shane heard the director ask as Rozanov slid forward, knees bumping into Shane’s elbow. “I kind of like that. Can we make it work? These two clowns aren’t gonna get much more serious than that.”
“What did he call us?” Rozanov asked, looking up. Their helmets knocked together and Shane pulled back, just a little.
He opened his mouth. He closed it and frowned. “You know… I don’t know the word. Clown? Like in a circus? Circus? God, how do you describe a clown? They wear, like, face paint—make-up, and make people laugh? In a tent? With animals and… acrobats? What the hell are they called?”
“Wow,” Rozanov said, still grinning. “I’ve never heard you struggle so much.”
“I’ve never had any reason to talk about this with you before! It’s pretty random.”
“It’s funny,” Rozanov said, “because I hear it now. The word is ‘kloun,’ in Russian, by the way—sound familiar? They perform in a ‘tsirke.’”
Shane groaned through his laughter. “Maybe we are klouny.” He couldn't help his smile, and couldn’t have wiped it off his face if he tried.
Ilya grinned back. Someone took a picture, shutter clicking, even though the cameras had never stopped filming.
Skating with Rozanov was fun. Shane already knew that playing against Rozanov in a game felt more intense than anything else. He was sure that once he was playing for the NHL, he would meet other players who could also match his skill, but in the junior leagues and even at the WJC, there just were not very many players on their level. And Shane didn’t like hockey because it was easy. He liked a challenge, and before Rozanov, he hadn’t found many.
But racing him around the rink was fun. Shooting with him was fun. Practicing tricks and trying to balance the pucks on the ends of their sticks between takes was fun.
The most fun Shane had had in a long time, maybe.
From the sidelines, they mocked and catcalled each other in Russian during all the shots they were asked to take alone, and they jostled each other when they were finally sent onto the ice together. Shane was not used to acting so carefree, not when he was technically working, but no one on the creative team seemed angry about it. Rozanov hung back to make fun of Shane from the stands while he finished his last part of the shoot, which meant that they headed into the showers together.
Shane knew himself to be a high-strung person. He knew he was neurotic. He knew he was sensitive, and anxious, and awkward, and none of those things had ever detracted from his performance in the rink, but sometimes they prevented him from getting close with his teammates. Or anyone.
Not Ilya. For some reason, he was the exception.
And he was beautiful. Shane didn’t want to think about it, just like he didn’t want to think about the fact that he had broken up with his girlfriend the month after his first WJC ended. He didn’t want to think at all, which was hard for him, because overthinking was his natural state of being.
But Rozanov was so beautiful sometimes it just… shut off his brain. Sometimes, around him, surprised laughter burst from his mouth before Shane had given himself permission to release it. Sometimes, around him, he got hard.
Rozanov noticed and Shane thought to himself, Okay, well, it was nice while it lasted. Friendship over. And our fucking last day caught on camera, too.
He swallowed, hoping the shower water would disguise his watering eyes.
Ilya turned to face Shane and grabbed his own cock, stroking it from base to tip, even though he wasn’t hard yet. Shane couldn’t help the way his eyes followed the movement, and lingered.
“Not here,” he said, the words dripping from his lips in Russian.
Ilya smiled slowly.
+++
Months later, Shane got to see the final edit of the commercial.
He and Rozanov, faces recognizable through their modified helmets even if the numbers and names on their jerseys hadn’t been enough, skating up to each other. It was intercut with shots of them racing across the ice, their sticks clashing, pucks skidding, a mix of the footage they had filmed and generic b-roll. Tightly laced skates, covered in freshly shaved ice. A beaten-up puck and a brand new one dropping on top of it, wobbling, then landing. Shane, undressing on the ice, dropping pieces of gear around him, trying to make undoing velcro erotic. Rozanov, his jersey hanging loose on his frame, clearly not wearing pads, doing acrobatic turns in the middle of the rink, shirt flaring high enough to show his stomach.
And then, again, Shane and Rozanov, skating up to each other, concentrated frowns on their mouths like this was a real face-off, like it mattered. And the moment where their eyes met, and suddenly they were smiling at each other like they couldn’t do anything else, bending back with laughter, and it became a supercut of every fucked up take, each irresistible smile or affable shove, fading into a wide shot, clearly not lit like the rest of the commercial, just him and Rozanov standing side by side by the barriers, chatting and laughing and shoving each other between takes.
The campaign slogan faded over the screen in blocky white letters as Rozanov slung his arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him in.
Competition is better with a friend. CCM.
Shane swallowed.