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Chapter 1: Russians Eat Quiet People.
Ottawa, Canada.
August 2006.
Shane sat in his coach’s room for the fourth time that week, his mother’s hand moving in slow circles against his back.
“I will have to bench you, Shane.”
The words landed after a long silence. The coach’s face was hard, but there was something resigned in his eyes.
Shane closed his eyes.
“Mr. Roy, please try to understand,” his mother said quickly. “He’s been going through a lot. I’ll talk to him. We’ll get him back in form.”
The coach didn’t respond immediately.
Shane stared at the wall behind him. Anywhere but at him. He wasn’t going to cry here. Not again. Not for the fourth time this week.
A hand came down over his.
“Shane.”
That was all it took.
His lips trembled. He looked up, and a tear slipped out before he could stop it.
Mr. Roy had known him since he was four, when Shane used to come to his wife’s coaching for ice skating. They weren’t just coaches. They were… something close to family.
Which made this worse.
“Getting into trials for U17 isn’t a joke,” Mr. Roy said, softer now. “You’re barely fifteen, and you’ve still got them all running for their money.”
Shane let out a shaky breath.
“Not enough to get picked.”
Helplessness settled in, dull and suffocating. Everything he’d built felt suspended mid-air, with nowhere to land.
“Shane.”
The softness was gone.
“You’re barely five feet. Have you seen the others? Sixteen, seventeen. Some of them probably older with fake papers. They’ll crush you without trying.”
Shane swallowed.
“You’ve got skill. But that’s not enough. Not yet. They need to trust you.”
“You’re a kid to them. No international experience. Under pressure, skill breaks. Scouts look at you and think, next year. When he’s stronger.”
The coach stood now, pacing once before turning back.
“And there’s nothing wrong with that. You build. You get better. You come back stronger. That’s how this works.”
Shane’s fingers curled into his palms.
“And it won’t happen if you keep sulking and playing like this.”
Silence stretched.
“Then tell me how to prove it.”
Mr. Roy frowned. “What?”
“How do I show them I can handle pressure?”
There was no hesitation now. Just something sharp and stubborn in his voice.
“I want World Juniors by seventeen. You know that. I can’t afford to be late to U17. Scouting’s still on. There has to be something.”
“Shane, please,” his mother said, trying to steady him. “It’s okay. You’ll get in next season.”
“I need to know there’s nothing else I can do.”
That was it.
Mr. Roy exhaled slowly and sank back into his chair, studying him.
“There is,” he said at last. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Shane leaned forward instantly, eyes lighting up despite everything.
“I’ll do it.”
“I haven’t told you what it is yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
The coach held his gaze for a long second.
“CSKA. Russian hockey club. Feeder system for their U17. They run a program for foreign players. Training, exposure… and a bit of psychological warfare. Russians don’t exactly play clean.”
Shane didn’t even blink.
“They’re scouting next month. I have a contact. No guarantees, though.”
His mother had gone very still beside him.
“If you don’t get in, at least you tried everything,” Mr. Roy continued. “If you do… it shows you can handle international play. And if you perform, Russian leagues will notice you. So will the World Junior scouts. That kind of attention spreads.”
Shane turned to his mother.
Her eyes were wide, searching his face, already knowing the answer.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“Mom.”
Her hand came up to his cheek, brushing over the fresh bruise from practice.
“I’ll have to come with you to Russia,” she said.
He smiled, small but certain.
She would. She always would.
“There’s a catch,” Mr. Roy added.
Shane looked back at him.
“You’ll need to learn Russian. Enough to train without a translator.”
That gave him pause.
A whole language. In a month.
For hockey.
Shane pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, thinking.
He knew English. French too. And a little Japanese. Languages weren’t impossible for him.
And this?
This mattered.
Shane nodded once.
His mother reached for the form, pen already in hand. When she got to the section—Basic Russian—she didn’t hesitate.
Neither did he.
He had a month.
And if anyone could pull it off—
It would be Shane Hollander.
Ottawa, Canada.
September 2006.
Shane almost wished he had known. Almost.
Ottawa Juniors played Vancouver at the end of the month. Shane had made sure to tie the laces of his left skate first.
His eyes swept the rink once before he pushed off, skating hard toward a Vancouver player driving at their goalie.
He cut the play off clean.
The puck came loose, and Shane took it, driving up the ice. Using his smaller frame, he slipped through the older players, weaving past them as they closed in.
They crowded him fast.
Shane bent low, pushing through a tangle of sticks reaching for the puck. Just as one nearly hooked it free, he flicked a pass to his right winger.
The shot came quick.
Clean.
Goal.
“Let’s go!”
Shane whooped, skating into the huddle as his team gathered.
By the end of the third period, Ottawa had beaten Vancouver 5–1, with three goals and one assist from Shane.
“Well done, Cap!” his right winger called as they headed toward the locker room.
Shane grinned, bumping fists. “Good game.”
But if he’d known he’d be called up to the stands afterward, he might’ve pushed for another goal.
His heart picked up as he walked toward his coach, who stood beside a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a military drama.
All Shane noticed at first were the stars on the shoulder of his dark olive uniform and the Russian flag stitched onto his front pocket.
Shane dragged a hand through his hair, grip tightening halfway through.
Why hadn’t his coach told him?
He barely knew any Russian yet.
He pulled off his helmet as he approached.
“Shane, meet Dmitry Khrabrin. Former defenseman for Russia, played alongside Sergei Vetrovo,” his coach said.
Shane went still as the man extended a hand, cold grey eyes studying him.
“Здравствуйте, Shane Hollander.”
“Здравствуйте, сэр,” Shane replied, gripping his hand as firmly as he could.
“Honor to meet, sir,” he added in Russian.
Something shifted, just slightly, in the man’s expression.
“You play well, Mr. Hollander,” Khrabrin said, in his heavy Russian voice, a challenge threaded through it. “But Russia builds a different kind of player.”
Shane let the words settle.
“Da, sir. I want to learn. Do my best.”
Khrabrin watched him for a moment.
“Your accent and grammar both need work,” he said finally, switching to English.
“I fix it, sir.”
A nod. Nothing more.
Then he turned back to Shane’s coach.
Shane stayed where he was, watching them walk toward the office.
He exhaled.
Hopefully his dad was already waiting outside.
He really didn’t feel like taking the bus today and answering his teammates’ questions.
Moscow, Russia.
October 2006.
Shane watched his breath fog the car window as they drove past Red Square.
Their contact in Russia, a man named Ivanovich, spoke continuously with his mom, his Russian-accented English spilling fast and fluid.
Shane knew he should listen. This information mattered. If he was going to survive here, he needed it.
But as he watched life move outside the window, a quiet, unfamiliar fear settled deep in his chest.
He barely fit in back home in Canada.
Moscow felt impossible.
He still couldn’t believe they had selected him. It didn’t feel real yet.
And even though this had been his decision, it already felt like self-inflicted punishment.
He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the seat. His breathing felt uneven, too sharp.
“Shane,” his mom called gently.
“It’s fine. I’m just freaking out. I’ll be okay in a minute,” he said, hoping she’d let it go.
She didn’t.
Her hand rested on his knee.
Shane focused on the warmth of her palm.
It wasn’t the end of the world.
She was here.
If nothing worked out, he could go back. Train harder. Try again for World Juniors.
And if that failed too…
He could open a small rink. Teach kids. Build something quieter.
It would be enough.
It wasn’t the end of the world.
Even if it felt like the end of his world.
His thoughts tangled in his head, one over the other. But before he could settle on any of them, the car slowed.
They had reached Khoroshyovsky.
It stopped in front of a residential building that looked almost like a cathedral.
Ivanovich and the driver lifted the heavier bags and started up the staircase. Shane grabbed the remaining ones and followed with his mom.
His shoes tapped against the wooden steps. Above them, a golden chandelier cast warm light over faded teal wallpaper, giving the place a strange, old-world feel.
“Chyort,” Ivanovich muttered under his breath, gesturing something to the driver behind him.
Shane turned the word over in his head, trying in vain to recognise it.
They stopped at the second door on the first floor.
A sculpted teal metal door.
Ivanovich pulled out a key that looked like it belonged to the door itself and slid it into the lock. It opened with a sharp click.
“Welcome. Home,” he said, stepping inside and pulling the yellow curtains apart with a flick.
Shane dropped his bags and looked around.
Small, but comfortable. A teal couch, a narrow table, a compact kitchen, and two rooms at the back.
He moved toward the window, his attention caught instantly.
A massive building stood across the road.
“That’s the Ice Palace, da,” Ivanovich said, pointing.
“CSKA practice rink,” Shane murmured, almost to himself.
“Yes, yes. Just across,” Ivanovich replied, cheerful, his accent thick.
He pointed again. “Magnit at left end of road. Shops on the right. Everything hockey-related in complex. If you need anything, you call me.”
Shane nodded.
Ivanovich drifted back toward his mom, continuing their conversation.
Shane stayed at the window, watching the Ice Palace in silence.
“Shane.”
He turned.
“There are boys from Sweden and Finland next door. You make friends, yes?”
Shane gave a nod
A firm pat on his back and Ivanovich moved towards the door, already pulling out money to pay the driver.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The room fell quiet.
Shane sighed heavily and dropped onto the couch.
“What is that smell?” his mom asked from the kitchen, wrinkling her nose.
Shane didn’t answer.
His gaze drifted back to the window.
To the Ice Palace.
To everything waiting for him there.
What exactly was he supposed to do in a place like this?
Moscow, Russia.
October 2006.
Simon, from Sweden, was a goalie.
Which explained a lot about him.
He talked constantly, filling silence before it could settle properly. Half his comments sounded sarcastic. The other half sounded like complaints directed at the universe itself.
Ilmari, from Finland, played left wing.
He was the opposite.
Quiet in a way that didn’t feel shy. More like he had already decided most conversations weren’t worth the effort.
They already knew each other from before, Shane could tell.
They slipped easily into conversation while Shane walked beside them feeling half a step behind.
Shane had joined them only because Ivanovich had come to check on them, taken one look at the three of them standing in awkward silence, and decided that clearly, something needed to be done.
Simon had curly dark hair. He was tall, broad, and looked like someone who could take a puck straight to the face and keep standing. Ilmari, on the other hand, was lanky and lean, with long legs and hands that probably secured more goals than Simon could ever hope to save.
Ivanovich took all three of them on a city tour on rented cycles, pointing out buildings, shops, landmarks—anything and everything that seemed important.
The chilly October air slapped against Shane’s face as he followed him through the roads.
Shane didn’t understand how they were supposed to become friends when Ivanovich was the one doing all the talking.
Then again, Shane didn’t know how to make friends in the first place—let alone with people from entirely different countries.
Simon and Ilmari barely looked at him the entire ride. They were older. Seventeen, at least. Already settled into themselves in a way Shane wasn’t.
They stopped outside a convenience store, while Ivanovich was talking with someone.
Shane glanced at them, then cleared his throat to get their attention.
Both of them turned.
Great. Now what exactly had he planned to say?
“Do you… both know each other?” he blurted in Russian.
Fantastic, Hollander. Really impressive. Way to butcher the only possible friendship in this stupid, freezing place.
They looked at each other, then back at him, a small smile tugging at their expressions.
“Yeah.”
“We play each other last year. He looks like he stab somebody over breakfast, but he’s actually fine.”
Simon said, his Russian broken.
Ilmari glanced at him,
“Only if breakfast is bad.”
His Russian significantly better.
Simon pointed at him immediately. “See? What I mean.”
Shane blinked once before a quiet laugh escaped him despite himself.
Then nodded, deciding that silence was, in fact, his safest strategy.
Instead, he focused on the Russian signs around him, trying to read them, sounding out the words carefully in his head.
They stopped briefly near the Ice Palace, Ivanovich pointing out entrances, schedules, speaking rapidly about timings Shane wasn’t sure he could keep up with.
“Morning sessions here. Gym there. You don’t be late,” Ivanovich said, tapping the side of his head. “They don’t like late.”
Shane nodded, glancing toward the rink doors.
They opened just then.
A group of players stepped out first—older, louder, already in motion. Then a man followed behind them, slower, deliberate.
Tall. Broad. Dressed in a dark coat despite the activity around him.
He wasn’t speaking, but the players ahead of him had gone quiet.
Ivanovich stopped mid-sentence.
“Ah.”
That was all he said, but his posture straightened slightly.
The man’s gaze shifted—sharp, assessing—and landed on Shane.
It didn’t linger long.
Just a second.
But it felt longer.
Like being measured.
“Who’s that?” Shane asked.
Ivanovich lowered his voice.
“Alexander Solovyov. Coach.”
Shane’s grip tightened slightly on the handlebars.
Solovyov said nothing. Just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to Ivanovich before walking past them.
Then he was gone.
Ivanovich exhaled through his nose.
“You make good impression when he sees you next time,” he said. “First one already happened.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur—different stores, unfamiliar streets, turns he wouldn’t remember later.
They stopped for lunch at a café.
There goes my macrobiotic diet, Shane thought.
By the time Ivanovich dropped them off near their building and left, it was already evening.
Shane tried to keep up on the ride back, but cycling had never been his preferred form of exercise, and the roads were packed with cars.
So he lagged behind while Simon and Ilmari rode ahead, talking easily between themselves.
Simon kept trying to ride one-handed whenever the roads emptied, nearly crashing twice.
Ilmari never reacted.
Shane couldn’t tell whether this happened often or if Finnish people simply lacked survival instincts.
He thought about his only friend, Joe.
They used to learn skating together at Mrs. Roy’s before Joe moved to Toronto for better opportunities—better training, better exposure. They barely talked anymore. Shane told himself he would try to reconnect with him once he was back home.
His thoughts drifted too far, too deep, and he didn’t notice the car until it was already there—coming in fast from the wrong side, cutting straight into his path.
The front of it clipped his bicycle.
Shane went down hard, sliding into a puddle of freezing, muddy water, the cold soaking through his clothes almost instantly and knocking the breath out of him for a second.
He looked up just as the door of a green Benz swung open and a boy stepped out—tall, broad, wrapped in an expensive jacket, the kind of person who looked like he had never been told “no” in his life.
He said something sharp in Russian, his voice cutting through the air.
Shane caught enough of it.
“Watch where you’re going!”
Shane tried to get up, but the ground was slick with ice, his hand slipping before he could find any proper grip. A girl moved in quickly, reaching out to pull him up, but Shane pushed himself to his feet anyway, jaw tight, ignoring the sting in his palms.
“You drive on wrong side,” he muttered in Russian—and regretted it the moment the words left his mouth.
He shouldn't have said that. It's was just his second day in Russia and he was already getting in fights.
He didn't even get in any fights back home.
Why now? Why here?
The boy stilled.
Then his expression shifted.
Not angry.
Amused.
His blue eyes dragged over Shane slowly, deliberately, as if assessing something mildly entertaining.
“Oh,” he said, the mockery settling in easily. “It talks.”
Shane said nothing, his fingers curling slightly at his sides.
“Say that again,” the boy added, taking a step closer. “Let me hear the accent.”
There it was.
Shane felt the heat rise under his skin, sharp and immediate, equal parts anger and embarrassment tightening in his chest.
“I said,” he repeated, quieter this time but steady, “you were on the wrong side.”
The boy let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Careful,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make it land. “You’re very far from home.”
Simon reached Shane first, grabbing the bent bicycle with an exhausted sigh.
“You’ve been in Russia two days,” he muttered. “And already someone tries to kill you.”
Ilmari lifted the front wheel, inspecting it briefly.
“Wheel’s fine,” he said.
A pause.
“Social situation less fine.”
Shane felt his teeth lock together.
The girl stepped in again, grabbing the boy’s arm.
“Ilya. Enough.”
Her tone wasn’t loud.
He glanced at her, annoyed, then back at Shane, as if weighing whether this was still worth his time. For a moment, it looked like he might say something else.
Instead, he smirked.
“Try not to get run over next time.”
Then he turned and walked back to the car.
The girl lingered half a second longer, giving Shane a quick, apologetic look before following him.
The engine started.
The car pulled away.
Silence settled in its wake.
"Asshole," Shane muttered, angrily.
“Think you made a friend,” Simon said dryly.
Shane let out a breath, wiping mud off his sleeve.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Going great so far.”
He got back on his cycle, jeans cold and wet, hands stiff around the handles as he started forward again.
Russia.
Fantastic.
CSKA Ice Palace, Moscow.
October 2006.
Shane waved at his mom from outside the CSKA training center on his first day. She stood at the window of their house, overlooking the gate.
A green Benz honked.
Second time in twenty-four hours.
He stepped aside, but not before catching the faces inside. The same ones from yesterday. The same ones who had shoved him into a puddle and walked off laughing.
Even from a distance, the sharp stink of cigarette smoke reached him.
The car rolled in, and like clockwork, everything slowed. Conversations dipped. Heads turned. People watched.
Like this mattered.
Like they mattered.
The door opened.
A Russian boy stepped out first, cigarette between his fingers. Shane couldn’t remember his name. Not that it mattered.
The girl from yesterday slid out of the driver’s seat. Another boy climbed out from the back.
Navy blazers. White shirts. Ties hanging loose like rules didn’t apply to them.
The girl drew every eye. Coiled dark curls, long legs, sharp features. She moved without hesitation, circling the car, opening the back as one of the boys pulled out a hockey kit.
The one from yesterday crushed his cigarette under his shoe, grabbed the bag, and walked off without a word.
No one stopped watching.
That’s what got to Shane.
Not the car. Not the smoke. Not even them.
The fact that everyone just… paused.
Like this was routine.
Like this was normal.
Shane shook it off and headed inside.
The Ice Palace was massive. Low-lit, carrying the sharp mix of metal, sweat, and fresh blades.
The cold hit Shane the moment he stepped in. Not welcoming. Not neutral.
Judging.
The rink was blinding. White ice carved with red and blue lines so precise they looked surgical.
Skates tore into it.
Short, controlled bursts.
Sticks clashed.
The puck snapped between players, too fast to follow.
Shane stood still.
Back home, rinks felt alive.
This one felt… watchful.
Like mistakes didn’t fade here.
They stayed.
He flexed his fingers, trying to shake off the stiffness creeping in.
This was what he wanted.
And now—
he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
He moved toward the bench, joining Simon and Ilmari.
“Oh, Shane. Hello,” Simon said, his Russian clumsy enough to stand out.
Ilmari nodded toward a broad-shouldered player. “Mikhail Khrabrin. Goalie.”
Not a boy. Not even close.
Shane looked at him properly. Khrabrin.
That name stuck. He’d heard it before.
“Shane Hollander,” he said, offering his hand.
Khrabrin shook it, flashing a grin that revealed two broken front teeth.
Shane pointed at his mouth. “What happened?”
Khrabrin’s expression darkened. “Rozonov pushed me.”
Simple. Flat. Not a story.
Shane nodded.
Same all around the world, then.
Khrabrin gestured lazily across the rink, naming players without ceremony. Seregrov. Dimitri. Antonov. Plato.
No one waved. No one cared.
Shane sat, pulling on his skates, fastening his helmet. His jersey clung to him like a consolation.
Red 81 on his back.
Out of place.
He was about to step onto the ice when the coach entered.
Alexander Solovyov.
Shane had seen him before. Didn’t make him any easier to face.
The man walked straight toward him.
“You watch today,” he said in rough Russian.
Not a suggestion.
Shane nodded.
Solovyov turned and headed for the rink.
A small movement in the stands caught Shane’s attention.
The boy from the Benz sat there now, slouched like the place belonged to him. The girl beside him sat straight-backed, hands folded in her lap, untouched by the cold.
“They don’t play?” Shane asked.
Khrabrin shook his head.
“That’s Sasha. Coach’s son.”
A pause.
“And her?”
“Sevtlana. Sergi Vetrovo’s daughter.”
Shane let that settle.
“And that’s Rozonov. Ilya Rozonov. Captain. Center. U17 this season.”
Shane stilled.
Out on the ice, Ilya Rozonov moved like everything else had to adjust to him. Not fast in a flashy way, not careful either. Direct. Heavy. He didn’t slip past defenders. He went through them, forcing space open, forcing the game to bend.
So this was the captain.
And he had already managed to get on his bad side.
Perfect.
“He’s mean,” Simon muttered.
“Yeah,” Khrabrin said. “Wasn’t always. Last few years… something changed. Now he snaps at anything.”
“Then why make him captain?” Ilmari asked.
“Because he’s good,” Shane said, eyes still on the ice.
Good wasn’t enough to describe it.
The game went on. Shane watched everything.
Khrabrin held the net together, blocking shot after shot. Antonov held his own. The defense bent too easily. Gaps everywhere.
And Ilya—
Ilya dictated the pace like it was his alone to set.
This wasn’t even a real game. Just warm-up.
Ilmari leaned forward every time the puck crossed center, like he might be called next. He never was.
Shane sat at the edge of the bench, silent, waiting.
Learning.
At the end, when Ilya finally looked his way, Shane didn’t look down.
Not first.
CSKA Ice Palace, Moscow.
October 2006.
The truth was, Shane didn’t mind the bench on the first day.
That’s what you do when you’re new to a team already moving like a single organism.
You watch.
You learn the rhythm before you try to match it.
But one day becomes two.
Two becomes a week.
And suddenly, the bench isn’t patience. It’s a sentence.
He had come to Russia to escape this exact thing. Back home, the ice had been slipping out from under him, shift by shift, until he’d felt it coming—the slow, quiet push to the sidelines. The loss of control, nothing but wait left for him. So he, crossed countries, picked up a new language, rewrote his life.
For this.
Simon and Ilmari had at least touched the ice. A period here. Two there. Nothing impressive, but it was something. Proof they existed.
Shane had nothing.
Not even scraps.
He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the bold red 81 stitched across his white jersey. He’d never liked odd numbers. They felt unfinished. Off-balance. Like they were waiting for something that never came.
Figures.
Everyone had told him the same thing—don’t draw attention when you’re not playing. Keep it simple. Keep your head down. Focus on hockey.
As if he’d ever done anything else.
Blend in.
Disappear into the system.
He had done it so well it bordered on erasure. After the first day, the coach barely looked at him. Not a word. Not even a passing glance that lingered long enough to mean something.
Shane was the first one in the arena. The last one out.
Somewhere in between, he ceased to exist.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. Not the kind that came from drills or the three-hour gym sessions he pushed himself through. This was quieter. Heavier.
The kind that comes from trying—properly trying—and still getting nowhere.
Waiting when there’s nothing else left to do.
He hated waiting.
He had gotten good at waiting.
Good enough to smile with his mother. Good enough to sound convincing. Until the day she showed up in the stands and watched him sit there. The entire game.
He hadn’t felt that kind of shame in years.
Not since he’d once refused to go to practice because he was scared of his coach—small, terrified, pretending it didn’t matter. He still remembered breaking down in his mother’s arms, crying like a child while she held him together.
Later, his father had told him.
“The only winner is the one who doesn’t give up.”
Shane held onto that now, even if it felt thin in his hands.
He pulled on his jersey, laced his skates out of habit more than expectation, and muttered a quiet goodbye to his mother before heading to the training center.
These days, the rink was the only thing he really saw. The city, the people, the novelty of it all—it had faded fast. Hard to care about a new world when you’re not allowed to step into it.
He barely noticed Simon and Ilmari anymore. His conversations with Khrabrin—Mikhail, as the goalie had insisted—were short, clipped, mechanical. Enough to be polite. Not enough to matter.
Shane sat down on the bench again, tightening his laces that didn’t need tightening.
And waited.
The team spread out across the rink, cutting through the acrid bite of the ice as they warmed up. Skates carving lines, sticks tapping, low voices carrying across the cold air.
Shane stayed where he was.
At the far end, Mikhail leaned against the post, gesturing something out to Simon. Simon nodded, adjusting his stance like it actually mattered.
It did, for him.
Simon then, tapped both goalposts be like he was checking they still existed.
A sharp whistle cut through the noise.
Coach Solovyov stepped onto the ice, already issuing instructions before he’d fully crossed the boards. The team snapped into position without hesitation.
Rozonov and Plato crouched low at center ice, bodies coiled tight.
The puck dropped.
Rozonov won it clean.
He moved fast, skating straight for the goal, the puck glued to his stick. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just forward.
Dimitri came in hard from the side, intercepting him before he could close in. Their shoulders collided, skates grinding into the ice as Dimitri shoved him toward the boards.
Rozonov didn’t go quietly. He twisted out just enough to shove the puck toward his teammate, barking something sharp over his shoulder.
Whatever he said landed.
The opposing line surged forward, feeding the puck to Seregrov on the right wing. He tried to pass it back—too slow.
The puck was gone before it reached its mark.
Rozonov’s voice cut across the rink, loud enough to turn heads. Not instructions this time. Something harsher.
Seregrov snapped back.
For a second, the play fractured.
Then somehow, inevitably, the puck found its way back to Rozonov.
Three players closed in on him. From the front, from the side, trying to box him in.
Didn’t matter.
He shifted—almost careless—and slipped through the pressure, his stick twisting at an angle Shane had only ever seen him pull off. A flick. A clean shot.
Goal.
Like it had been inevitable from the moment the puck touched his blade.
Shane shook his head, dropping his gaze to his skates.
Same story. Every day.
Sometimes, after enough yelling from the coach, the rest of the team would manage to sync up long enough to score a few of their own. But most days—
It was just Rozonov.
Dragging the entire game behind him.
Shane tightened his grip on the bench. Just once, he wanted a shot. He didn't want to get ahead of himself but he felt he could probably put on some challenge for Rozonov.
A sharp shout snapped his attention up.
The play had stopped.
Rozonov was in Seregrov’s face now, voice raised, sharp and cutting. Then he turned, throwing something at the coach too, frustration spilling over.
Bits of it carried across the rink.
“No hand-eye coordination.”
Seregrov didn’t take it. His reply came back just as loud, laced with something far less polite.
Shane leaned back on his palms, watching.
Same argument. Different day.
Coach Solovyov stepped in, voice cutting through both of them. Rozonov didn’t argue this time. He just shook his head, ripping off his gloves with a sharp motion and turning toward the exit.
Done.
Or so it seemed.
He stopped just short of stepping off the ice.
Turned back.
The coach tilted his head slightly—a warning.
Rozonov ignored it.
His gaze shifted.
Landed on Shane.
Shane straightened instantly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His heart kicked hard against his ribs as he met Rozonov’s stare.
“Ty.” Rozonov called from the middle of the rink, pointing at him.
“What do you play?”
“Center,” Shane answered in Russian, keeping his voice steady, burying the flicker of hope before it could surface.
Hope, when it came to Rozonov, was a bad habit. One Shane had learned to kill early.
Rozonov’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying him, before he turned back to the coach.
“Plato, move to my right. Let the new boy play.”
For a second, Shane didn’t move.
Then it hit him.
After a full week of being invisible, of rotting on the bench, something cracked open in his chest.
A chance.
Solovyov turned, staring at him like he was something being measured.
“One period,” the coach said after a pause.
That was all Shane needed.
Rozonov didn’t look at him again, already disinterested, like this decision meant nothing.
Shane stepped onto the ice anyway.
The noise in his head died the moment his blades touched it. Doubt, frustration, anger, all of it stripped clean, leaving behind only focus. Pure. Precise. Familiar.
This was where he existed.
Rozonov crouched slightly, meeting his level, eyes locked on him. Testing.
He didn’t return the look. His eyes stayed on the puck.
It fell.
And Shane moved.
The past week hadn’t been wasted. While they’d ignored him, he’d watched. Memorized. Patterns, habits, gaps. Every weakness laid out like a map.
They didn’t know him.
His speed.
How tightly the puck stayed to his stick.
How easily he slipped through space that shouldn’t exist.
And worst of all, they underestimated him.
Shane cut through them.
Smaller, faster, untouchable. His body weaving through defenders, edges biting clean into the ice, the puck an extension of him.
No one took it.
By the time they reacted, he was already past them.
The puck left his stick only once.
Into Mikhail’s net.
For a moment, the rink went silent.
Simon leaned back against the boards, eyebrows raised.
“Okay,” he muttered. “So that wasn’t beginner’s luck.”
Ilmari nodded once beside him.
“Rozonov noticed too.”
Shane exhaled, sharp and quiet, turning back as the reality of it settled in.
His first goal in Russia.
Across the ice, Rozonov had stopped moving.
He didn't look bored, anymore.
There was something else there.
Interest.
Curiosity.
Shane tilted his head slightly, a small, instinctive acknowledgment. Thanks, maybe. Or challenge.
Even he didn’t know.
Rozonov scoffed, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Newcomer’s luck.”
He gestured for the team to reset.
Shane just smiled faintly to himself as he skated back into position.
He was on the ice, today.
And that was all that mattered.
Moscow, Russia.
October 2006.
Rozonov had been right. Maybe it was beginner’s luck.
Because after that one period, Shane didn’t get another real chance. One goal. That was his scorecard after ten days in the Russian academy.
He had been noticed. Just not in a way that mattered.
He wasn’t invisible anymore. If anything, he felt exposed. Like he’d stepped directly into everyone’s line of sight.
When he entered the locker room, the whispers followed.
“Kitayoza.”
He’d heard it more than a few times. When he’d tried to look it up later, he found nothing. Still, Shane Hollander didn’t need a translation to recognize an insult.
Simon told him once that Rozonov had joked to Sasha that it was a miracle Shane could even walk—let alone see—through those perpetually scrunched eyes.
That one stuck.
Shane didn’t know why it bothered him as much as it did. Maybe because, somewhere deep down, he’d expected better from Rozonov. Some baseline of decency, at least. Especially after the day Rozonov had called him onto the ice.
That expectation died quickly.
Shane decided, then and there, that he hated him. Properly hated him. No amount of ice time would make him grateful anymore.
And yet—
Rozonov was a monster on the ice.
Where Shane was controlled, disciplined, deliberate—Rozonov was speed and chaos. Reckless. Relentless. Like the outcome didn’t matter because he already believed he’d won.
Shane hated that.
He hated how good Rozonov was.
But more than that, he hated that Rozonov knew it.
Somewhere along the way, Shane had started measuring himself against him. Obsessively. Trying to figure out what had gotten Rozonov into U17 that Shane didn’t have.
At night, he stood in front of the mirror, replaying moves he’d seen Rozonov pull off. Over and over again.
That was his training now.
Watching.
Waiting.
Simon and Ilmari were getting more ice time. Shane wasn’t.
He’d even changed where he sat on the bench, leaning in closer just to catch what the others were shouting. Most of it flew past him. Too fast. Too foreign.
But one thing came through clearly—they mocked their opponents like it was second nature. Like it was as much a part of the game as skating.
No one held back.
Shane told himself it was normal. That this was just how it worked here. That if he wanted to play at this level, he needed thicker skin.
It didn’t help.
Not when the comments followed him off the ice.
He wasn’t even playing. What did they have against him?
It came to a head in the locker room.
Dimitri decided Shane shouldn’t use the showers. Not explicitly—nothing that clean. He said it from the back of the stalls, surrounded by the others, his voice carrying just enough.
Shane didn’t catch all of it. The Russian was too fast, drowned out by the noise of running water.
But he heard enough.
“Don’t know what that cocksucking Asian thinks he’s doing,” Seregrov said, laughing. “Getting in the showers like he belongs here.”
That was all it took.
Shane felt the heat rise behind his eyes. Sharp. Immediate. Unavoidable.
After that, he never stepped into the showers again.
Not the locker room, either.
CSKA Training Center, Moscow.
October 2006.
Shane had ripped off his skates the second practice ended.
Another day on the bench. Another day pretending he didn’t notice the looks.
He shoved his gear into his bag with more force than necessary, fingers stiff from cold and frustration, then headed for the exit before anyone in the locker room could corner him into conversation he didn’t have enough Russian to survive.
The rink doors hissed shut behind him.
Cold air hit his damp hair immediately. The evening smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and melted ice dragged out from the arena on players’ blades.
He’d almost made it across the lot when a voice called after him.
“No one’s going to steal your bag from the locker room, Hollander.”
Rozonov fell into step beside him like he’d always intended to.
Shane glanced sideways at him, then away again.
For a second, he considered pretending not to understand.
“What?” he muttered instead.
“The bag.” Rozonov gestured lazily toward Shane’s shoulder. “You run out every day like building is on fire.”
Shane adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder.
“It’s not that.” He swallowed. “Apartment close.”
Shane grimaced.
“My apartment is close.”
"Don’t want to go to locker room.”
His Russian came out clipped and uneven. Every sentence felt like assembling furniture with missing screws.
Rozonov slowed slightly, turning toward him properly now.
“Why not?”
Shane exhaled through his nose.
God, he was tired.
The cold had settled into his knees after practice, and the back of his neck still burned from where Coach had barked at him for missing coverage during drills he barely got to participate in.
"Are they not good to you?"
Rozonov said, pointing his thumb towards the rink.
Shane just shook his head quickly and kept walking, hoping the Russian would leave him alone.
"I am talking to you, Hollander."
The irritation in Rozonov’s voice finally made Shane stop.
He turned sharply enough for his bag to swing against his hip.
“No. They’re fine.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I just...” He searched for the words and felt stupid doing it. “Russian hard right now.”
The admission tasted humiliating.
He understood enough. Hockey Russian. Practice Russian. Angry Russian.
But feelings were different. Feelings required precision.
And Shane hated sounding small.
Rozonov watched him for a moment before speaking.
"Talk English then." Rozonov said, in his accented English.
Shane looked up at him, relief flashing across his face before he could hide it.
“You speak English?”
Rozonov’s mouth twitched faintly. Not quite a smile. More like amusement dragged unwillingly across his face.
“Yes, Hollander. Some of us understand more than one language.”
Relief hit Shane so fast it nearly made him dizzy.
He rolled his eyes instead.
“I already know three languages. Four if you count Russian.” He shifted his bag higher. “Which you should, since I passed the screening to be here.”
Rozonov raised an eyebrow.
“So your mouth only runs in front of me?” he asked. “You say nothing to them.”
He jerked his thumb back toward the rink, shrugging.
Shane’s gaze dropped automatically to the cracked pavement beneath his shoes.
“Well...” He scuffed at a patch of dirty snow with the toe of his sneaker. “You were being an asshole.”
Rozonov snorted.
“And you were wrong too." Shane pointed out.
English loosened something in his chest.
"Ah!" Rozonov exclaimed, coming to stand in front of Shane.
His taller frame blocking Shane's path.
"So they are right? You like sucking cocks?"
Shane nearly choked on air.
“What?”
Rozonov didn’t even blink.
The silence stretched long enough for Shane’s face to go hot despite the freezing air.
“So you know what they’re saying,” Shane said finally, posture tightening.
A muscle flickered in Rozonov’s jaw.
“Yes. I’m captain.” His accent thickened slightly when he was annoyed. “I know what my team says.”
Shane frowned.
How did he know? It's not like Rozonov shared locker with them. He always stayed back with coach after their practice was over.
“What I don’t understand,” Rozonov said slowly, “is why you say nothing.”
Shane’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
“What do you want me to say to them?”
"What they are saying is not untrue. It's not like a play here, there is no reason for me to waste hot water." Shane replied, trying to stay in control of his voice.
Rozonov stared at him.
"Hollander. You are dumb." Rozonov glared at him.
“What?” Shane asked indignantly.
Rozonov frowned slightly, like he was checking the translation in his own head.
“Dumb,” he repeated. “Wrong word?”
“No, I know what dumb means.” Shane shifted awkwardly. “Why do you think I’m dumb?”
Rozonov stepped closer until Shane had to tilt his head slightly to keep eye contact.
Close enough for Shane to see melted snow clinging to the stitching of his gloves.
“Because you act like you already lost.”
The words landed harder than Shane expected.
“Bozhe moy, Hollander. You come here for what?” Rozonov continued, gesturing sharply with one gloved hand.
“To sit on bench? To let them treat you like outsider in your own team?”
Shane opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Fight for it,” Rozonov snapped. “Tell coach you want ice time. Tell team to fuck themself.”
“That’s not how this works, Rozonov.” Shane shot back immediately.
“You don’t earn respect by fighting with your coach.”
“That is exactly how it works here.”
Rozonov shoved two gloved fingers lightly into Shane’s chest. Just enough to make the point feel physical.
“You think Russians respect quiet people? No. We eat quiet people.”
Despite himself, Shane almost smiled.
Almost.
“You have to be...” Rozonov paused, searching. “Upryamyy.”
“Stubborn,” Shane supplied quietly.
“Da. Stubborn.” Rozonov nodded once. “Can not play international hockey without being stubborn.”
The parking lot had gone quieter around them.
Distant traffic. The hum of arena lights overhead. Wind scraping across concrete.
Shane studied him carefully.
There was no kindness in Rozonov’s face.
No softness either.
But there was something worse.
Expectation.
As if Rozonov had already decided Shane was capable of more and was annoyed he hadn’t realized it yet.
“Why are you even telling me this?” Shane asked. “You don’t like me.”
Rozonov’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Because I’m captain,” he said flatly. “And next week we play Petersburg.” He adjusted his grip on his helmet under one arm. “If team not play with you, is becomes my problem.”
That stung more than it should have.
Shane’s jaw tightened.
He opened his mouth, ready with something cutting, but Rozonov spoke first.
“Grow a fucking spine, Hollander.” His gaze swept over Shane briefly. “Do you even curse? Do you just use it for me?”
Shane flushed instantly.
“I never needed to.” He crossed his arms defensively. “I play hockey. Not whatever this is.”
Rozonov barked out a short laugh.
“Yes. Hockey is politics.” He started walking backward a few steps, eyes still fixed on Shane. “This isn’t Canada.”
Then he turned and walked off into the cold, leaving Shane alone, fingers still curled tight around the strap of his bag.
Moscow, Russia.
October 2006.
That night, Shane stood outside his mother’s bedroom for nearly a minute before finally pushing the door open.
The apartment was dark except for the thin strip of orange streetlight leaking through the curtains. Somewhere outside, tires hissed over wet road. The radiator clicked softly against the cold.
His mother was asleep beneath the blankets, one arm curled under her pillow.
Shane gulped.
Then he crossed the room quietly and slid into bed behind her, wrapping an arm carefully around her waist like he was afraid she might disappear if he held too tight.
For a second, he almost changed his mind.
But the warmth of her back against his chest undid something in him.
She stirred slowly, making a small sound of confusion before turning in his arms.
“Shane?” Her voice came rough with sleep.
Her hand found his face immediately.
Even half-awake. Instinct.
“Mom,” he mumbled, and the word came out smaller than he intended.
He lowered his head into her shoulder before she could see his expression.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Now she was awake.
Fully awake.
Her arms closed around him without hesitation, pulling him against her chest beneath the blankets. Her fingers moved through his hair slowly, untangling sweat-damp curls from his forehead.
“What happened, baby?” she whispered.
Shane shook his head once.
He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes already. That humiliating hot sting.
So he pressed his face harder into her shirt and focused on breathing.
In.
Out.
Don’t cry.
The silence stretched.
His mother didn’t rush it.
She just kept rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades while the radiator clicked softly beside them.
Finally, Shane spoke, quietly into the darkness.
“Will I ever actually be able to do anything with my life?”
The words seemed to physically hurt coming out.
His mother went still for half a second.
She loosened her hold just enough to look at him properly, one hand cupping his jaw.
His eyes stayed down.
Her thumb brushed gently beneath one eye, warming cold skin.
“Shane Hollander,” she said softly, “you crossed the world at fifteen years old to chase something people twice your age are too scared to even try.”
His mouth twitched weakly, but he still wouldn’t look at her.
“You think boys who can’t do anything survive this long?”
A weak laugh escaped him, more breath than sound.
“I’m serious.” Her voice stayed quiet, but steady now. “Those boys at that rink are trying very hard to make you feel small because that’s easier than admitting you scare them.”
Shane frowned slightly. “I don’t scare anyone.”
“You do,” she said immediately.
“Because they see something in you, that they can't see in themselves.”
Her hand moved into his hair, smoothing it back gently.
“Do you know how many people quit the moment something hurts their pride?”
Shane didn’t answer.
"Don’t you dare start thinking that struggling means you’re failing.”
Something in his chest tightened painfully at that.
All week he had held himself together so carefully. Every practice. Every comment. Every second on that bench.
And now, in the dark of their tiny apartment in Moscow, with his mother holding him like he was still little enough for the world to be simple again, the exhaustion finally caught up to him.
“I don’t know if I’m good enough,” he admitted quietly.
There it was.
His mother smiled then. Small. Certain.
“Maybe not yet,” she said honestly. “But Shane? You’ve never stayed the same for long.”
Shane's eyes burned.
“You’re going to become something wonderful,” she whispered. “Not because it’s easy for you. Because you refuse to stop.”
A tear slipped free.
This time, he let them.
CSKA Training Center, Moscow.
October 2006.
Shane repeated the lines again in his head.
It was a few minutes before the practice was going to start, Shane was buckling himself to try and talk to his coach. His courage dying with every passing minute.
Finally, he took a deep breath and knocked at the door. Better to get it over with.
"Come," Coach's gruff voice yelled.
Shane entered the room, closing the door softly behind him with a click.
He turned to see Solovyov watching him with sharp eyes.
Shane dug his nails into his palms.
"Speak." The coach commanded, his voice booming in the small room.
Shane tried to hold his gaze as he said, "I want ice time."
Solovyov folded his hands in front of him, giving Shane a dead stare.
"I--" Shane fumbled, trying to remember the speech he prepared.
"I want to play." He finally settled on the easiest sentence he could form in his Russian.
Solovyov regarded him for a moment before breaking the stare and getting back to the paperwork scattered across his desk.
"We already have two centers, Hollander." Solovyov said.
We don't need you.
It was unsaid, but Shane could feel it.
He gritted his teeth.
And stayed where he was.
Every instinct told him to nod politely and leave before he embarrassed himself further.
We eat quiet people.
The words echoed in his head. His fingers curled tighter behind his back.
“I can play wing too,” Shane added quickly.
Solovyov didn’t look up.
“You are too small for wing.”
The words hit harder than Shane expected, not because they were cruel, but because Solovyov said them like facts.
Shane swallowed.
“I scored against Rozonov’s line.”
That finally got Solovyov’s attention.
The coach leaned back slightly in his chair, studying him again.
“Odin goal.” His accent sharpened around the English word. “Means nothing.”
One goal.
Heat crawled up Shane’s neck.
“You avoid contact,” Solovyov continued. “You panic on boards. You stop moving when bigger players close space.”
Each sentence landed cleanly. Surgical.
“You wait for perfect opening instead of making one.”
Shane said nothing.
Solovyov finally looked up.
“You think hockey is skill?”
“Hockey is pressure.”
Shane could feel Solovyov’s eyes dismantling him.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Solovyov leaned back slightly.
“When bigger players pressure you, you look for escape first.”
Shane frowned.
“No.”
“Yes.” The coach’s gaze stayed fixed on him. “You play like someone trying not to smushchat himself.”
Smushchat?
Embarass, his brain supplied, a minute later.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
“And that makes you afraid to fail in front of everyone.”
Shane’s throat felt tight.
“I fix it,” he said quietly.
Solovyov’s expression didn’t change.
“All players say this.”
“I mean it.”
Silence.
Then:
“Today,” Solovyov spoke at last. “Penalty kill.”
Because penalty kill was bound to happen in Russian Hockey.
Shane blinked.
“If you hesitate, you sit again.”
That was it.
Dismissal.
But to Shane, it still felt like oxygen entering his lungs again.
CSKA Ice Palace, Moscow.
October, 2006.
The whistle shrieked across the rink.
“Trip!” an assistant coach barked.
Dimitri slammed his stick against the boards before skating toward the box.
Solovyov didn’t look at him.
“Penalty kill.”
Players moved instantly.
Rozonov over the boards.
Antonov after him.
Then:
“Hollander.”
Shane froze.
Just for a second.
“Move.”
He pushed himself onto the ice, lungs tightening the moment the cold hit his face.
Everything looked different on the penalty kill.
More space. Less time.
The opposing unit spread out smoothly across the zone, moving with the confidence of players who’d done this a thousand times before.
“Stay low,” Rozonov snapped. “Don’t chase.”
The puck dropped.
Shane chased anyway.
One pass slipped behind him into the slot and the shot came instantly.
Mikhail exploded across the crease with a brutal kick save.
“Compact!” Solovyov thundered.
Heat crawled up Shane’s neck.
The puck cycled again.
This time Shane forced himself lower, stick extended into the lane instead of attacking the puck carrier.
Patient.
The winger tried cutting middle.
Shane stepped into him hard enough to disrupt the angle.
Not pretty.
Enough.
The puck kicked loose.
Antonov cleared it down the ice.
A couple sticks slammed the boards once in approval.
Tiny.
But real.
The next rush came faster.
A bigger winger drove wide against Shane’s side.
Pressure crashed into him immediately.
Shane hesitated.
The winger slipped past.
“Inside!” Rozonov barked.
Too late.
The cross-ice pass connected cleanly.
One-timer.
Mikhail dropped into butterfly so violently the sound cracked across the rink.
Rebound.
Chaos.
Bodies collided in front of the crease.
Shane barely tracked the puck before instinct took over.
He threw himself into the lane.
The shot hammered directly into his thigh.
Pain detonated through his leg.
His knee almost buckled.
But the puck deflected harmlessly away.
“Clear it!”
Shane staggered toward the loose puck, absorbed another hit into the boards, and fired it the length of the ice with everything left in him.
The horn sounded seconds later.
Penalty over.
Shane stayed bent forward, dragging air into burning lungs while his thigh screamed with every heartbeat.
Rozonov skated past muttering something under his breath.
Then Shane looked toward the bench.
Solovyov stood with his arms folded, expression hard as stone.
A single nod.
Tiny.
Controlled.
Expectation.
“Get back!” the coach barked.
Somehow the nod felt worse than the yelling.
CSKA Locker Room, Moscow.
October 2006.
The locker room smelled like sweat, wet fabric, and melted ice.
Shane hesitated just outside the doorway.
Voices echoed inside. Loud. Overlapping Russian he still couldn’t fully untangle fast enough.
His thigh still throbbed from the blocked shot.
For a second, habit almost won.
Grab the bag. Leave. Shower at the apartment.
Easy.
Then he looked down at himself.
Sweat cooling beneath his gear. Damp curls sticking to his forehead. The sharp sting of dried salt behind his neck.
No chance.
The blocked shot hurt worse now that adrenaline had worn off.
Shane exhaled slowly and stepped inside.
Nobody looked at him immediately.
Equipment hit benches. Tape ripped. Someone laughed loudly near the back showers.
Normal.
Almost.
Shane limped toward his stall, trying not to look tense as he pulled off his gloves.
The conversation nearby shifted.
Not quieter.
Just sharper.
“There he is,” Dimitri said.
Shane kept his eyes down, tugging off one glove.
Seregrov looked over from across the room and barked out a laugh.
“Bozhe moy,” he said. “I thought Hollander died when puck hit him.”
A few players snorted.
“He looked like baby deer getting shot.”
More laughter.
Shane’s jaw tightened.
Not angry enough to fight.
Just enough to feel heat creeping into his ears.
Dimitri leaned back against the lockers, grinning.
“No, no,” he said. “Best part was him trying to block net.” He spread his arms dramatically. “This big.”
The room cracked up again.
Shane stared hard at the buckle on his elbow pad while he worked it loose.
“You fly into puck like desperate housewife protecting child,” Antonov added between laughs.
Even Shane almost smiled at that one.
Almost.
“Still worked,” he muttered quietly in Russian.
The room dipped slightly quieter.
Dimitri looked at him.
“What?”
Shane glanced up this time.
“I said it still worked.”
His accent dragged against the words unevenly, but they came out steadier now.
A beat passed.
Then Seregrov snorted.
“Tiny foreigner finally talks.”
“Careful,” Dimitri said. “Another blocked shot and Solovyov might adopt him.”
That got another round of laughter.
But lighter this time.
Less like sharks smelling blood.
Shane noticed it immediately.
The difference.
Nobody was telling him to leave.
Nobody was looking at him like he didn’t belong in the room.
They were mocking him like a teammate.
Which was humiliating.
Which was also, somehow, the best he’d felt since arriving in Russia.
He shook his head under his breath and grabbed his towel.
“Where are you going?” Dimitri called after him. “You survive Russian hockey but scared of showers?”
“Shut up,” Shane muttered automatically in English.
The response came so naturally the room actually laughed harder.
Real laughter this time.
Not cruel.
Shane blinked once, mildly horrified to realize he might’ve accidentally participated in social interaction.
He disappeared into the showers before anybody could say anything else.
Hot water hammered against his shoulders.
He stood there silently for a while, forehead resting briefly against the tile.
The noise outside blurred together through steam and rushing water.
His thigh pulsed painfully.
But underneath it sat something unfamiliar.
Relief.
When he stepped back out with a towel around his neck, Mikhail was sitting beside his stall unlacing his skates.
The goalie glanced up once.
“You looked ridiculous.”
Shane sighed. “Thank you.”
Mikhail grinned.
“No, seriously. Like angry raccoon.”
Shane dropped onto the bench beside him.
“I blocked it.”
“Da.” Mikhail nodded approvingly. “Good.”
He jerked his chin toward Shane’s leg.
“Hurts?”
“Like somebody shot me.”
“Da.” Mikhail nodded seriously. “Hockey.”
That finally dragged a tired laugh out of Shane.
Mikhail pointed toward him with a roll of tape.
“Tomorrow they insult you worse.”
“Great.”
“Means they stopped pretending you are temporary.”
That landed quietly between them.
And for the first time since arriving in Russia, Shane didn’t feel completely outside the team anymore.
Mikhail stood, grabbing his bag.
“Also,” he added, pointing toward the showers, “you should wear sandals next time unless you want foot fungus.”
Shane blinked.
“…What?”
“Russian locker rooms are biological warfare.”
Then Mikhail walked off laughing to himself while Shane stood there holding his towel like he’d just received ancient survival wisdom from a drunken mountain prophet.
Which, honestly, was probably the closest thing this team had to emotional support.