Chapter Text
July 2018
“Ilya Rosanov will never win another Cup. He'll never win another MVP. At this rate, his only path to any more awards will be for Lady Byng.”
Svetlana bared her teeth at the TV in her living room. Idiots. These so-called hockey podcasters were all fucking idiots.
“After this disastrous move, it's certainly more likely than anything else. And you can just tell it wasn't Boston's decision either.”
It had been a bad decision by her to listen to this garbage prior to going out. It was killing her mood and making her completely disinterested in the drink on her end table.
“Our time is up today on Man in the Crease, just like Rosanov’s career.”
Svetlana exited out of the YouTube podcast and leaned back on her couch. “Bezmozglyye yebanyye idioty.”
Brainless fucking idiots.
She didn't usually listen to hockey podcasters. Mostly because their takes were slow. Or worse, slow and wrong.
Man in the Crease was the worst of them all, if mind-bogglingly, the most popular. And despite worshipping Ilya for the first ten years of his career, they didn't think for a second he had a plan. Or any hope in his hockey twilight years. A good ten of them if he was lucky.
To be fair, Svetlana didn't think Ilya had a plan either, at least not in how it related to hockey. It was easy to see that his move to a boring Canadian team had been spurred on by his relationship with the enigmatic and mysterious Jane. But even without a hockey plan, she'd seen him mold teams—both players and coaches—and executive leadership, to his will. He would do so again.
But as her Google alerts for Ilya Rosanov were blowing up her phone in the wake of his shocking move to Ottawa, she greedily listened for any intelligent or optimistic take on it.
Absent-mindedly, she flipped to the next podcast. Empty Netters. Not even a full thousand subscribers. Babies in the space.
“I just can't fathom why Rosanov would choose Ottawa,” Dan, the dark haired one, said. “Boston would have paid anything to keep him. San Francisco and LA were both desperate to bring him to the West. You're taking more money, better likelihood for another Cup. What is he thinking?”
Svetlana reached for the remote, but accidentally knocked it to the floor. She listened with half an ear as she prepared to shut it off. She couldn't take it anymore.
“Buckle up, boys. I've got a different take on this.”
Svetlana's head snapped up against her will, her eyes narrowing in on the blonde man with a backwards ballcap.
“Rozy is my boy and you are not giving him enough credit. He knows what he's doing.”
“Come on, CP.”
CP shook his head vehemently. “I’m serious, Dan. Everyone is freaking the hell out and they're dead wrong. Rozy’s never gonna win another Cup. Bullshit.” He elongated the word and practically yelled it into the mic. “Bullshit.”
With reluctant sympathy, Dan said, “It's Ottawa, man.”
“It could be fucking Timbuktu. This is Ilya Rosanov we're talking about. And you all have short fucking memories if you don't remember the state of the Raiders before they drafted him.”
Svetlana's hands were crossed underneath her chin as she nodded in agreement. Finally. Fucking finally, here was a halfway decent take on Ilya’s move.
“I'm laying all my cards on the table here boys. Mark the date. Rozanov is going to rebuild Ottawa. I think in three years we'll see playoff runs. In five we'll see an MVP, and by ten, Ottawa will be a multi-Cup team.” CP was practically frothing at the mouth. Deadset in this belief in a hockey player he'd never met (probably).
A spark of something warm and pleased and exciting ricocheted in Svetlana's belly.
“You heard it here first, folks,” Dan said, smiling at the camera with a fair share of skepticism and disbelief. “Chris Powers predicts that Ottawa will win their first Cup in the history of the franchise. Reminder for our listeners that they currently hold the MLH’s longest playoff drought at 22 seasons. The team is only thirty years old.”
Svetlana eyed the pretty blonde man who'd been—in her opinion—accurately predicting the future as she tapped her finger to her lips.
“Ty mne nravish'sya, Chris Powers,” she said to no one in particular. “Po krayney mere, poka.”
I like you, Chris Powers, she'd said. For now.
She even liked the dark haired one. Though he'd been skeptical of Ilya's move, he hadn't been so blatantly disrespectful.
And both of them were cute, but Svetlana had always preferred blondes.