Chapter Text
August 2006
Shane blew out a harsh breath, eyes narrowing as he set his aim on the net ahead of him. He adjusted his grip on his stick, and shot.
Ping.
“Fuck.”
Scowling, he set up a second shot, thinking about it even less.
The puck sank squarely into the top left corner of the net, exactly where he wanted it.
He could feel the cold sweat dripping down his neck as he set up shot after shot, ignoring the clock on the wall ticking down the minutes until his least favourite day of the year officially started.
Shane’s family was one of the plenty who billeted kids for the Ottawa 67's, and every year, they got a new NHL hopeful taking up space in Shane’s house, sitting on Shane’s couch, chirping about people that Shane knew and had played with since he was a kid, being annoying at Shane’s rink.
It was fucking infuriating.
He had a routine, a system, and for nine months out of the year, it was sent to shit.
His mom had told him that he was being ridiculous more times than he could count, especially considering this isn’t exactly new for them. They’d been billeting since before Shane was born, and his life had been a constant stream of kids in and out of his house. He’d even liked some of them when he was younger, but he’s 15 now.
Hockey was everything to him.
It always had been, but now, it’s everything in a way that means more. He’s gotten international recognition multiple times, scouts at basically every game, and is officially playing in the Major Junior leagues this year. Shane doesn’t brag, he’s just the exception.
Now, it’s time to be serious, and every one of those guys that comes through his home is a threat.
(He can all but hear Rose in his brain now, telling him how dramatic he is. Pot, meet kettle.)
Shane’s eyes snapped up as he heard the rink door slam, and he saw his mom approaching the glass with that look on her face. He sighed, rolling his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
“Shane, honey. C’mon. You promised you’d wrap it up half an hour ago.” Yuna Hollander’s voice echoed over the empty rink, and Shane glanced at the clock. She was right, as usual - the clock read 2:15, and they had to pick up the kid at the airport at 4. He’d been there for hours at this point, and he knew he was gross.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll clear up and head home.”
Yuna simply shook her head and spun around, clicking away on her heeled feet.
Shane let the scowl take over his face as he scooped up the pucks, dumping them into their bucket as he plodded off of the ice. Less than two hours before the worst months of the year officially kicked off.
⚻
Ilya fidgeted with the strap on his backpack as he stood in the vestibule of Ottawa International Airport. His headphones were cracking with the volume of the music blasting into his ears, but he was barely paying attention.
His eyes tracked every person who crossed his path, looking for the faces he’d only seen in pictures so far, and he chewed on the inside of his lip as he continued to wait.
The Hollander family was infamous in the billet community - almost every one of their billet sons had gone on to play in the NHL, with many of them directly crediting Yuna and David Hollander for their achievements. When Ilya had been matched to them, he had felt a thrill of excitement. This could be it. This could be his break.
There was only one annoying bump in the road: they had a son Ilya’s age. Shane.
Shane came with his own list of achievements, a list that was as long as Ilya’s. With his records as the top scorer, fastest skater, and most heavily medalled player in Ottawa 67's history, let alone in the entire U18 division, Shane was on the fast track for an NHL draft before he even graduated high school. His records were immaculate, his shot average insane, his athleticism on the ice was practically legendary. Nobody could touch him.
Well. Except for Ilya.
Ilya held records of his own, all of which mirrored Shane’s almost exactly.
He’d been breaking stats in the states since he was in the Peewee league. Once he hit 14U, he was unstoppable. He could have had his choice of AAA programs to go into, but he chose to billet in Canada for a reason (much to the chagrin of his father).
That reason was beating Shane Hollander at his own game, and then thanking Shane’s parents once he came out on top of the NHL draft.
Ilya’s eyes hadn’t stopped keeping tabs on the door as his mind spiralled, so when the doors slid open and a gorgeous woman stepped through them, he straightened up, ripping his headphones out of his ears.
Yuna Hollander smiled at him widely, waving a manicured hand high. She was trailed by her husband David, and Shane. His face was stoic, mouth set in an indifferent line, and his shoulders were broad and unmoving as his hands stayed firmly in his pockets.
Ilya smirked, then immediately schooled it into a much more professional smile as Yuna quickly approached.
“Ilya Rozanov, I assume?” Yuna wasn’t asking, as much as telling.
Ilya nodded, taking the hand she extended towards him. “Yes, ma’am, that’s me. It really is a pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at Shane, who was staring at him with guarded eyes. “All of you.”
Ilya let his smirk slip back for the briefest of moments, but Shane made no move to acknowledge it.
The final round of introductions happened as Ilya figured they would, slightly awkward, but nothing he wasn’t able to handle. He’d turned the charm onto 100 the second they approached, and he fully intended on keeping it there.
When he had reached his hand out to Shane to shake, there was only a brief moment of hesitation from the other boy’s end before he took Ilya’s hand in a tight grip, shaking once before dropping it like it burned.
Shane didn’t say a single word to him the entire car ride, only responding to his parents with a hum or short answers.
Ilya couldn’t help himself from trying to figure this kid out.
Shane Hollander wasn’t exactly known for his personality, on or off the ice.
He didn’t need to be - not with his talent.
Ilya had only figured he’d be… nicer, maybe? His parents were incredible. In the forty minutes Ilya had known them, they had shown him nothing but smiles, interest in his life, and had given him their undivided attention. They were living up to their reputations as ‘the best’, and Ilya was confused as to how their son could be this standoffish, borderline rude.
Whatever. Ilya didn’t need Shane Hollander to be his friend, no matter how much he was intrigued by the way he could feel Shane’s anger radiating off of him, or by the way Shane’s brow furrowed when Ilya laughed in response to something his parents said, or by the way Shane’s hair fell in front of his eyes when he stared down at his lap, unmoving and silent.
Shane had been instructed to show Ilya to his room when they arrived at the Hollander home.
Ilya could tell he wasn’t pleased about it, but he made no move to object as he started through the house.
He barely looked around him as he stared at the back of Shane’s head. Shane’s hair was still slightly damp, but not as damp as it had been at the airport. He must have just showered before they got in the car to collect Ilya. He wondered if Shane had been to the rink that day, or if he had gotten a late start to his day, or-
“Bathroom’s there. We’ll be sharing that one, so just… try to keep all your shit straight. Please.”
Ilya blinked. He glanced at the door Shane had briefly gestured to, and they continued on down the hallway.
“My mom does laundry on Thursdays, but gear gets washed every night if you need it. There’s a closet downstairs with extras if you need anything.” Shane’s words sounded stale, like he was reading from a script.
Ilya hummed. “Sounds good. I’ll be sure to thank her.”
He ignored the soft scoff that came from Shane.
They stopped in front of an open door, and Shane gestured in.
“This is you.”
He stepped aside, and Ilya took his spot in the doorway.
The room was objectively great. Light grey walls, big windows with blackout curtains, photos and art scattered throughout, and a decently sized bed covered in a plush blue duvet. There was a desk, a closet, and a bookshelf along the walls, and a clothes hamper next to the door. The sun was shining in, but Ilya couldn’t see a single speck of dust floating in its light.
The room was very, very nice. When Ilya told Shane so, the other boy merely shrugged.
“My parents care.”
Ilya dropped his backpack on the ground with a thud, and turned to face Shane full on.
Now that they were closer than before, Ilya could see that he was a few inches taller than Shane. He could see Shane notice too, and bit away his grin as he saw Shane try to subtly stand as straight as possible.
“Where is your room?” Ilya couldn’t help but ask. Shane frowned.
“Across the hall. You won’t need to go in there.”
Ilya threw his hands up, finally grinning. “Christ, dude, message received. I just wanted to know.”
He stepped away from Shane, and plopped himself down on the bed, leaning back on his arms. He kept his eyes on Shane, who still stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking anywhere but at Ilya.
“My dad will be up here with your suitcases in a minute. I’m, um.” Shane trailed off, and Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t have to hang out, Hollander. I can tell you’ve got other places to be.”
Shane looked at him then, and nodded once.
He didn’t say goodbye as he quickly left the room.
Ilya felt his smirk drop, and he sighed as he collapsed onto the bed.
He closed his eyes as his head hit the mattress, and he took a deep breath. His long day of travel was finally catching up with him, and he could feel the tiredness in his chest settling, the aches from the airplane seat twinging in his muscles. The scent of soft laundry soap invaded his nostrils, and he rubbed his fingers against the threads of the duvet.
He didn’t get nervous, not really. He wasn’t even nervous now.
Something about Shane was bothering him, though. Ilya had his own reputation on the ice, and while it wasn’t overly friendly, it wasn’t exactly as cold as Shane was behaving. He truly had no idea if Shane had looked him up before he arrived - he could only assume that Shane had done as much research as Ilya had.
He took the few minutes before David arrived to just breathe, the sun warm on his face.
He figured he should call his dad to let him know he arrived, but he couldn't bring himself to sit up and grab his phone from the bottom of his backpack.
Ilya didn’t hear David come in a few minutes later, and he didn’t hear the quiet chuckle as David placed the suitcases in front of the closet, and gently closed the door behind him as he left.
⚻
Shane put the dishes on the table with a little more force than necessary. He could hear quiet voices from the kitchen, and his mom’s laughter.
He wasn’t feeling particularly giggly tonight.
Ilya had been missing since they arrived, and now it was dinner, and Shane knew his mom was about to send him to collect. He wanted nothing less than to be an errand boy for yet another hockey season, but it was inevitable.
When her call came from the kitchen, he merely sighed, and headed upstairs with heavy feet.
Ilya’s door was closed, and Shane paused at the door.
He listened for a moment, and heard nothing. He knocked, gently. Nothing. He knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing.
“Come on, dude.” Shane muttered to himself, and gingerly pushed open the door. The room was dark, the only light being from the streetlamp outside shining in the dusk.
Shane’s eyes landed on the bed, and he saw Ilya, fast asleep in almost the same position Shane had left him in hours ago.
His curly hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and his mouth was slightly open, chest rising and falling as he breathed. His face was soft, and his hands were clenched into fists where they lay above his head.
Shane felt like a creep, watching him like this, but he found that he couldn’t help it.
He’d done his due diligence researching Ilya, once he’d found out their billet was him.
Ilya was ruthless on the ice, and he was known for what could only be described as his prey drive. Always dialled in, there was rarely a shot he didn’t take (and score), a hit he didn’t knock, a move he didn’t perfect. His stats were intense.
He was truly, genuinely Shane’s equal, in almost every way.
Ilya had attitude that Shane didn’t. He chirped on and off the ice, he made friends (but more enemies, if the chat pages were true), he was already great in the room, and he was known for his ability to make anyone root for him, no matter who you started out rooting for.
The boy asleep on the bed in front of Shane didn’t resemble his rep at all.
“Ugh.” Shane whispered out loud, and stepped into the room.
He grabbed at Ilya’s ankle, shaking it. “Hey.” He shook again, a little harder than necessary. “Wake up. Dinner.”
Ilya’s eyes fluttered open, and they immediately landed on Shane. He watched as Ilya’s eyes darted down to where Shane’s fingers were wrapped around his ankle, and Shane quickly dropped his grip.
“You slept all day.” Accusatory. Too mean.
Ilya’s eyes widened, and he sat up, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry. Are your parents totally mad?”
Ilya seemed a little too worried, and Shane had to recover this epic fumble of a conversation.
“No, no way. They figured you’d sleep it off, most guys do.” Shane hoped that was enough, because Ilya’s face was tight, tense.
What a way to be woken up. Shane would have freaked out too.
Ilya huffed, and pressed both hands against his eyes, rubbing hard.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Shane nodded.
“Cool.”
Cool? Loser.
Ilya glanced at him, and the start of a small smile began to grow on his face.
Nope.
“Come downstairs when you’re ready. Soon, though.” Shane turned away, then turned back around. “Please. And thank you.”
He practically ran out of the room, and heard a soft laugh echo behind him as he took the stairs two at a time.
Shane stopped once he reached the dining room, and gently knocked his head against the doorway.
“Fucking ‘please and thank you’?” he muttered to himself, dragging his hand down his face. “Get a grip.”
Ilya appeared a few minutes later, wearing a new shirt and jeans, and Shane could tell he’d run his fingers through his hair to try and tame whatever was happening on the top of his head - to no avail.
Yuna and David greeted him with wide smiles, and Shane kept to himself once they sat at the table. Ilya was across from him, and Yuna and David were at opposite ends of their small dining table.
Ilya slipped into conversation easily, laughing at David’s jokes, smiling at Yuna, offering his own quips and pieces as they ate, but Shane couldn’t focus on anything in particular. He heard small things, like Ilya talking about his father and brother back in Boston, and like his plans for after graduation (drafted into the NHL, which was a shocking revelation all around).
But mostly, he stared at Ilya’s hands.
Shane watched as Ilya twiddled with the fork, twisting it around and around in his fingers, and as he crumpled a napkin up in his palm, and as he smoothed the napkin back out against the table.
He watched as Ilya’s fingers wrapped around his water glass, and brought it up to his mouth, then set it back down on the table, carefully placed over the preexisting ring of condensation on the tablecloth.
He told himself that it was easier than making eye contact with the boy sitting in front of him, whose curious blue eyes were boring holes into Shane’s head, and definitely easier than joining in the conversation in any way that mattered.
After dinner, he did his usual job of cleaning up, but was startled to find Ilya following him, holding dishes in his hands.
“You don’t have to help me. It’s my chore,” Shane fumbled with a knife, and he watched as Ilya caught it before it clattered to the floor.
“It’s no trouble. I want to help.” Ilya handed Shane the knife, a polite smile on his face. Shane took the utensil, and swallowed away his snarky reply before simply nodding, turning back into the kitchen.
It was silent between them as they cleaned, except for when Ilya asked where the Tupperware was, and when Shane told him, and when Shane showed him how to use the garbage disposal, and then when Ilya asked him where the dishes went, and when Shane showed him the very particular way Yuna liked her dishes stacked.
Ilya followed each instruction to a tee, and Shane found himself glancing over at Ilya more than he liked. Ilya’s face was focussed, more than he would have expected for the monotonous task of washing and drying dishes, and he was careful with the dishes as he slid them into their spots in the cupboards.
When they were done, they stood in awkward silence for a moment.
Shane once again couldn’t help himself.
“Usually we watch a movie after dinner. Mom and dad let the billet kids pick the movie their first night, so,” Shane shrugged, “That’s you.”
Ilya cocked an eyebrow, putting down the carefully folded dish towel on the counter.
“Any movie?”
Shane shuddered inside. He had hated almost every movie that had been chosen. The kid last year had chosen some stupid movie about fast cars, and Shane had spent the entire two hours cringing.
“I mean. I guess?”
Ilya nodded slowly, and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “Can I put sweats on, or do you guys hang out in your regular clothes?”
Shane felt the laugh leave his mouth before he registered it, and he didn’t miss the smile that flashed across Ilya’s face.
“You can definitely wear sweats to watch a movie. They’re strict, but not that strict.”
Ilya nodded again, meeting Shane’s eyes. “Cool. I’ll be right back.”
Ilya disappeared from the kitchen, and Shane did not watch him leave.
Ilya Rozanov was a lot of things, according to the grapevine. Snarky, rude, wickedly smart on the ice, even smarter with his constant chirping and needling, and a solid reputation as a terror to all who know him. So far, though, Shane had yet to see any of that from this season’s billet kid.
Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst year ever.
⚻