Chapter Text
August 3, 2012
Shane Hollander had moved into Martlet House exactly ten days before training camp was set to start.
Most of the team had also returned to Montreal— or most of the upperclassmen, anyway, the ones who had aged out of the on-campus dormitories and were instead placed into the two hockey houses the program had leased out. The Redbird House on Hutchison was the bigger of the two, by a large margin. It had four bedrooms, was loud by reputation and in practice, and proved a reliable source of noise complaints from neighboring dwellings come September. Needless to say, Shane was very grateful to have been placed in the much smaller and quieter by comparison Martlet House. It was a humble two bedroom abode located on Aylmer Street, complete with a quaint front porch and a kitchen just big enough for two hockey-sized people if they coordinated themselves properly.
As a notorious overachiever, it was expected that Shane would arrive on campus prematurely. Growing up, he had always been hockey-obsessed to the nth degree. And though he thought it impossible for anyone to match him in his efforts, it appeared as if his teammates might be catching up to him. He supposed he understood why his teammates also chose to come back a bit early for training camp. Last year, the McGill Redbirds had made it to the national championship. Last year, they lost.
No one had overanalyzed the events of the third period of their final game for the entire duration of the off-season as much as Shane had. He didn’t doubt that others like Hayden Pike or Cliff Marlow lost sleep over it too, but he was almost certain that they didn’t torture themselves over it until their stomach sank with a mixture of self-hatred and existential dread.
Regardless of how much his other teammates thought about the devastating loss, it didn’t matter. Next week marked the start of a new campaign. And everyone and everything be damned if his team suffered the same fate as the year before. No, Shane grimaced through every additional rep, every extra conditioning session, they were going to win it all this time.
Almost everyone had arrived and stood at the ready for another grueling and testy hockey season. Everyone except Shane’s new roommate, Ilya Rozanov.
Shane didn’t know much of what to expect, but Coach Wiebe had given him a brief synopsis. Shane knew his name, obviously— and that he was Russian and a senior transfer out of the flaming dumpster pile of a hockey program that was U of T. It was safe to say Shane knew next to nothing about the guy, other than how he played hockey from the times they had faced off before.
Whatever happened over in Toronto was anybody’s guess, but it was bad enough to cause a significant shake up amongst their roster. It was hard to believe anyone could come out of Toronto with any semblance of skill, but Ilya seemed to be the exception. He was one of the first to leave, slipping through the Varsity Blue’s grasp and straight into McGill’s awaiting embrace.
When Wiebe phoned Shane at the end of June to dump the news on him, he was completely against the idea of playing on the same team as Ilya Rozanov. Ilya was a known terror on the ice, his reputation certainly preceded him. Shane knew him to be an aggressive player, and had accumulated numerous bruises throughout the prior season to prove it. He could identify a million reasons that Ilya wouldn’t be a good fit on the McGill Redbirds, but Wiebe insisted that this move would bring them their much sought after trophy. And Shane trusted his coach, he really did. He trusted Wiebe to do everything in his power to protect the established culture of their team. But… even the graduating seniors and incoming freshmen change the culture every year. There was no telling what impact adding a certain Ilya Rozanov would have in their locker room.
Sometimes, Shane hated being the most responsible on the team, but for the most part, he held onto that reputation proudly. He studied hard, he was first on the ice and last to leave, and he even gave pointers to his teammates to improve their skill level— never unsolicited, of course. And for all his efforts, Shane was technically already in the NHL. He was a drafted player, his rights were retained by the Montreal Metros, who had picked him at tenth overall back in 2009. Maybe he could have gone earlier, even first, but his family had always instilled in him the importance of an education. Luckily, he was fortunate enough to join an organization that respected that choice, but they both knew that hockey was his future. That was three years ago now, and this would be Shane’s last chance to add ‘national champion’ to his college resume. This upcoming season meant a lot to him as a player, and hopefully, when his name joined the ranks in the Hockey Hall of Fame, he would have a college championship trophy to brag about, too. If Ilya Rozanov helped him accomplish that goal, then so be it.
It wasn’t a shock when Wiebe told Shane that it was Ilya’s goal to be drafted this year, also. It had been Shane’s dream since he first pulled on skates and held a stick in his hands. But being a senior transfer would not make things easy for Ilya. Adjusting to a new team, a new play style, and a new line in a short period of time was something Shane didn’t wish on anyone. He said as much on the phone, articulating the challenges Ilya would face. But his concerns were all for naught when Wiebe claimed he already had a fix to that problem. Shane would room with Ilya for the school year, show him the ropes, and catch him up to speed in a way that only a human-sized hockey encyclopedia could.
And for all the things Shane could say against this particular decision, he was mindful that— if everything went according to plan— he would be captain this year. That meant the team and the people on it were his responsibility, even if they were Toronto rejects. Shane was not going to let Ilya Rozanov ruin this for him. Besides, maybe Wiebe was right. The aggressive and chaotic style Ilya played with would bring something different— something they didn’t have last year— to the table. He hung up the call, resolved to handle this calmly and professionally, proving exactly why he earned the title of captain. Well, would earn the title of captain.
On that same phone call, Shane was briefed that Ilya likely wouldn’t arrive until the last minute, which was fine, because he liked having the space for himself, even if only to mentally prepare for the changes to come.
After meticulously unpacking his belongings room by room at Martlet House, Shane fell back into his in-season routine quickly. The morning runs, the high-protein smoothies, the restrictive diet, watching tape until his eyes watered because he forgot to blink… all of it. The days blurred together, anticipation mounting as the first day of camp drew nearer and nearer. But still, and perhaps as expected, the other bedroom remained empty.
August 10, 2012
A week of his usual ministrations had gone by, which meant that Shane and the rest of the team were only three days out from camp. He was in the middle of meal prepping when he was ambushed by a call from his mother, Yuna Hollander. Usually, he loved talking to his parents. They always seemed to know him better than anyone else in his life. But something today made this conversation more of a chore. After a polite hello between them, the questions inevitably came rolling in.
“How are things going?” She asked in a neutral tone, but Shane knew better than to treat the question as something at surface level.
“Fine. I am actually in the middle of meal prepping right now.” It wasn’t subtle at all, but Shane wasn’t trying to be. He wanted to go back to the quiet only the empty house around him could provide.
“Oh nice! What are you making? You know it has to be—” She started.
“Low carb, but still getting my veggies in. I know, Mom.”
“Okay okay, I know. You’ve been doing this for so long, I shouldn’t always ask. Anyway, enough of that. Have you done anything to prepare for your new roommate?”
“He has a name, Mom. It’s not a curse word, you can say it.”
“Okay, well, have you gotten anything for Ilya? A nice little something to welcome him to the team?”
“Why the fuck would I get him a gift?” For God’s sake, Ilya was a grown man. What would he think if he saw a bottle of wine with a bow laying on his bed? Or a Kraft Dinner box in a gift bag in the kitchen with his name on it?
“Watch your language, young man.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed, before swiftly moving on to the subject at hand. “But still… I wouldn’t even know what to get him.”
The thing is, hockey culture hardly allowed for sentimental gestures or even small acts of kindness. Shane tried not to internally cringe at the thought of his new teammate finding him ‘soft.’ It wasn’t exactly the ideal way of starting his captaincy. He wanted to be taken seriously, but he also just wanted to be considered another one of the guys. Even the idea of getting Ilya a gift was proving that those two roles were going to be difficult to balance.
“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘it’s the thought that counts?’” Yuna countered.
Shane tried not to roll his eyes at that, he swore his mom had a sixth sense and would know that he had done so— even when she couldn’t see him.
“Of course I have. It still doesn’t mean that I would know what to get him.”
“How about something related to Montreal?” She suggested. “He needs to know he plays for the Redbirds now, not the Blues.” Well, there it was. She would always seize the opportunity to get a dig in at a program she didn't like. And if there was anything the general population of Canada needed to know about Yuna Hollander, it was that she absolutely loathed the University of Toronto.
As much as Shane loved his mom, he wanted this conversation to be over as soon as possible, so he could go back to chopping up the broccoli. He didn’t think talking and trying to make sense of his mother’s unusual request while wielding a sharp knife was a good idea. The best way to proceed safely was to just give in and agree. He would find some time this week to get Ilya Rozanov a gift. With his mom’s approval, the conversation eventually whittled down to nothing, and Shane was finally able to return to the task at hand.
His mom’s words replayed in his mind later that night with the McGill bookstore link opened in his phone’s browser. He didn’t have any real excuse to not go tomorrow and find something for Ilya, even if the thought of it made him blush. Yuna, ever the investigator, would find out one way or another if her ‘suggestion’ had been taken.
He made his way to the campus bookstore the following day, after his morning run, freshly showered and dressed in a soft shirt. The shelves were lined with everything McGill. Shot glasses, baseball caps, scarves, all with the Redbirds logo or school crest plastered on the front. Shane snatched one of the shot glasses off the shelf because if he knew anything about Russians, he knew they loved vodka. It was only when he was making his way towards the checkout that he second guessed himself. It seemed pretty weird and cheap to only gift a practical stranger a shot glass, but it was too late to get out of line now. He hastily looked around for anything to grab within the stands lining the queue, his eyes settling on a monkey plush wearing a McGill shirt. He reached for it quickly, he supposed it would do.
Once he got home, he set both items down on the empty bed in the second room. As he retreated out of the doorway, he almost felt like the plushie was staring back at him, taunting him for doing something so cheesy. He hoped Ilya wouldn’t find it too creepy. Maybe he should write a card explaining himself just a little.
He found a scrap of paper in the bottom drawer of his desk and quickly scribbled a note. It was relatively simple.
“Welcome to McGill. Happy to have you on the team! - Shane.” He debated adding more, but it didn’t seem necessary. It was incredibly boring, but also incredibly true to form. Anything else would have been superfluous. And despite how silly it seemed, Shane fell asleep feeling excited for Ilya to get his new presents and to finally move in.
August 12, 2012
Training camp was set to start tomorrow, and Shane didn’t know why, but he was rather disappointed that the second bedroom was still empty.
Throughout the morning, Shane had found himself stealing glances towards the door a few times, wondering when Ilya might stroll in. Would he have a lot of luggage? Or would he come with something a bit closer to just the clothes off of his back and a giant hockey bag? He busied himself wiping down the already spotless countertops in the kitchen, running a load of laundry while he was still the only one using the machines, and taking a long, hot shower. The day passed slowly, agonizingly slow, and a knock on the front door never came.
He checked the second bedroom once more, just to see if Ilya had somehow managed to quietly sneak his way in while he was in the shower. He tried his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw the bed the way he left it, the monkey plushie with the beady eyes staring back at him again. He dumbly pattered back to the kitchen to get one last glass of water before retracing his steps up the stairs and going to bed.
The following morning, he was up and out of the house at exactly 5:51 AM. It was only a nine minute walk from the house to the rink, meaning he would get there at 6:00 on the dot. For the first time in a week, hockey was the only thing running through his mind.
He tried to take in the silence of the rink as he put on his gear, starting with his pads, then his socks and skates. First his right, then his left. Except, as he was tying up his skates, he noticed that the rink wasn’t silent at all. There was a suspicious and all too familiar sound of criss-crossing skates, with the occasional stick scraping the ice and the swoosh of the puck going into the net. Somehow, someone had beaten him to the rink. Orientation wouldn’t start for another hour, and Shane knew none of his teammates ever came in this early. Maybe they cared more about last season’s loss than he originally thought. Shane hastily made work of taping up his stick before readying himself to meet whoever had bested him in getting to the rink this morning.
Finally ready, Shane made his way down the tunnel to investigate. He expected to see Hayden or maybe even JJ, because surely Cliff Marlow would still be sleeping off his hangover from the night before at this point in the AM. Shane was shocked by the blur of a tall blonde man speeding down center ice towards one of the open nets. He was stick handling a puck, not even looking down at it as he glided closer and closer. The puck was in the back of the net before Shane could blink, a direct shot to the top left corner. The man didn’t react at all, just collected the puck and began heading towards the other net, repeating the same fluid motion over and over. He looked comfortable out there, and Shane hated the idea of being the one to disturb his peace, but it had to be done.
“Ilya Rozanov?” Shane questioned, as if his eyes were deceiving him. But that playstyle, that shot, the man himself was unmistakable.
The next thing Shane saw was two piercing blue eyes staring back at him, as Ilya turned to address the individual who dared to disrupt his shootaround.
“Yes.” He stated rather matter-of-factly, before turning his attention downward towards the pucks once more, slinging another shot off at a lethal speed.
Shane signaled Ilya’s response as permission to skate closer and take the puck out of the net. He copied the drill, skating to the opposite end and sinking one in. After a shot or two, he realized he still hadn’t properly introduced himself.
“I’m Shane Hollander, your roommate,” he called awkwardly over his shoulder.
Ilya didn’t turn to look at him this time. Just simply grunted in acknowledgement at Shane’s words before continuing with the drill. However, after another round of shots, Ilya finally broke his silence as they passed each other in opposite directions.
“Your backhand. Is weak.”
Shane stopped in his tracks, ice shavings flying every which way at the sudden change in momentum. All this waiting and anticipation, and that was the first real sentence (or two) that Ilya had spoken to him?
He scoffed in disbelief, “You weren’t even watching.”
“Okay, shoot then. I will watch.” Ilya challenged, leaning over the boards casually, as if he were waiting for the show to start. Shane scoffed again. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had criticized some aspect of his game, but he was never one to back down from a challenge.
Shane felt the pressure mounting as he brought the puck onto his blade, his hands almost shaking under Ilya’s watchful gaze. He wanted— no, needed— to prove Ilya wrong. He was certain his backhand was perfect as it was, and was more than willing to demonstrate it.
The puck sailed gracefully into the net, landing a few inches lower than Shane had aimed for, but it was a good shot nonetheless. At least it went in? The inaccuracy issue probably had something to do with having a rather judgmental audience.
“Your wrist twists too slow,” Ilya called from the boards.
Shane looked over, tightening his mouth into a thin line. Okay, maybe Ilya was right. Maybe he did know what he was talking about. Without another word, Shane retrieved the puck and tried again. This time, the puck was closer to his invisible target, wrist snapping with a bit more velocity.
“Still too slow. Let me show you.”
Shane expected Ilya to get a puck for himself and demonstrate that way, but instead, he lined up his body near to Shane. Almost too close. Definitely invading his personal space. Shane could barely take one breath before Ilya was touching him, grabbing his waist, angling him exactly how he wanted. His gloved hand came over on top of Shane’s stick, forcing him to comply.
“Now try.”
“I fucking can’t with you grabbing me like that. Fuck off.” Shane said without really meaning it.
“Mmm, I think you like it.” Ilya smirked into his neck, before slowly backing off as requested.
Man, Shane couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. So what if he had goosebumps trailing up and down his arms? He was on the ice for crying out loud, and anyone would have reacted that way to somebody whispering something so… so provocative to them. He quickly shook the feeling off, dragging the puck onto the blade of his stick once more and launching it into the net, being sure to snap his wrist at a vicious pace. This time, it sailed perfectly towards the crossbar, going bar down into the net. The beautiful sound of carbon on metal echoed through the cavernous arena.
When he turned to face Ilya again, he was met with a victorious smirk.
“Told you so.”
“Oh, fuck o—”
As if on cue, Shane’s insult was interrupted by none other than Coach Wiebe. He sharply cleared his throat before cutting in, “Shane. Ilya.” His analyzing gaze poured over the two young men in front of him, as if he knew something they didn’t. “I see you two have properly met.”
Shane instantly felt his spine straighten. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ilya do the same. He hoped that Wiebe hadn’t been standing there for too long.
“Uh, we were just—” Shane could feel himself sputtering.
“Figured I would let you guys know you have twenty minutes to get in the film room.” Coach Wiebe didn’t care to let Shane finish his thought before turning away, back down the tunnel. He had never been one for allowing lame excuses.
In a huff of oxygen Shane didn’t know he was holding, he skated towards the boards. He’d had enough of being out on the ice with Ilya, anyway. It wasn’t a surprise when he heard the unmistakable sound of blades slicing through the ice behind him. Shane figured Ilya had already found the locker room earlier that morning to get ready, but he still walked slowly down the tunnel to make sure Ilya wouldn’t get lost.
Shane’s locker had been in the same spot since his freshman year. Right on the end, only bordered by one other player. It was a good spot all things considered, especially for a crowded locker room. Not much foot traffic past this particular area. So, then, why was Ilya following Shane all the way down? Shane was about to whirl on him and ask him yet again to back off when he caught sight of a new name posted above the locker next to him. Rozanov. Fuck. How did he not notice that when he was getting ready earlier?
While Shane was sure to carefully place his shoulder and elbow pads within the cubbies of his locker, he watched on in horror as Ilya just shed them off and tossed them wherever they’d seem to fit. Everything had a place in Shane’s locker. It was practically the only way to stay organized. He even had specific pockets for things in his bag. One pocket for extra tape, one pocket for his emergency deodorant, one pocket he always slid his phone into before going out onto the ice. Ilya was the definition of chaos as the pile of gear in his cubby grew taller and taller, eventually ending with his jersey donning the top like a cherry in a shake. Shane could feel himself shuddering at the thought of what Ilya’s locker might look like in the middle of the season, he could already envision it— overflowing and encroaching on Shane’s precious personal space.
Shane was still sliding off his shin guards when Ilya completed his mountain of gear, leaving both of them reduced to undershirts. This was a typical outfit for orientation, a force of habit for the whole team, needing to be ready to take the ice at any given moment. However, Shane’s mouth parted slightly in shock when Ilya’s fingers began reaching for the hem of his undershirt, yanking it over his head and tossing it by his already discarded jersey. Shane was even more horrified when a noise of surprise came out of his mouth, unprompted. He tried to cough to cover it up, but Ilya’s eyes were on him long before that, anyway. Shane looked back at his empty locker, searching for something to busy himself with. He could feel his cheeks burning.
Ilya continued moving next to him, but Shane wouldn’t— couldn’t— risk taking another look. He had seen enough. More than enough. Ilya was fucking huge. His biceps could probably have their own time zone. His thighs could barely fit in the black compression shorts he was wearing, flexing with every change in his balance. And there was something else that had garnered Shane’s attention. A glittering of golden chain in his peripheral vision, a cross pendant hanging just above Ilya’s perfectly sculpted chest. Shane imagined it hanging above him, the body-warmed metal gliding across his body. What the fuck. Where did that thought even come from? The shuffling beside him had stopped, and Shane couldn’t resist another peek. Ilya had replaced the old shirt with a new one, this one significantly less sweaty. He would never tell anyone, of course, but his chest ached at the discovery of Ilya no longer being shirtless. He was certain it was out of jealousy and longing for such a toned physique, though. He made a mental note to ask Ilya about his weightlifting routine later.
Shane cleared his throat in an attempt to regain some composure. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll show you where the film room is.”
Ilya looked at him wordlessly, daring Shane to look over as he gestured towards his previously naked torso, as if to say Does it look like I need to do anything else?
“Great,” Shane gritted out as he snatched his notebook and pen from his duffel bag, annoyed at himself even though he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong.
The maze that was the backrooms of the practice facility confused freshmen and transfers alike every year. It naturally came with the territory of an old university having old buildings. It didn’t help that the film room was tucked along one of the hallways where every door looked the same. Ilya should be thankful Shane was there to show him the way.
While most of the facility had been renovated over the summer, the film room— if the lingering stench of sweat in the old patterned carpet and three rows of theatre style seating was anything to go by— had remained largely untouched. Shane would like to say that after three years he had managed to get used to the putrid smell, as he was certain everyone else on the team had, but that would simply be untrue.
And from the way that Ilya’s nose turned upon approaching the doorway, Shane could tell the pungent odor was apparent to him, too.
“It’s always been like this,” Shane confirmed.
“Was not going to say anything.”
“... You were about to.”
“Maybe,” Ilya admitted with a shrug, the beginnings of a smirk forming in the corners of his lips. Not that Shane was staring. He absolutely wasn’t staring. He definitely wasn’t wondering if Ilya’s lips would be as soft and plush when kissing as they appeared to be. Woah. Shane really needed to get his shit together.
As if he had a sixth sense, Wiebe interrupted Shane’s internal crisis again, this time with a clap of his hands, commanding the attention of the entire room.
Shane noted the time on the old-fashioned caged metal clock hanging on the wall to his right with a start. It was exactly 7 AM. He then promptly found himself scrambling to find a seat in the second row, next to Hayden, desperate to forget whatever weird little intrusive thought had rudely entered his brain. Again.
In contrast, Ilya coolly settled in the only open chair in the back row, next to a very hungover looking Cliff Marlow.
Shane didn’t even have it in himself to laugh at Cliff’s sorry state. Instead, he was helplessly trying to control the shaky feeling in his hands as he reached into his bag for his notebook and pen. Out of force of habit, he clicked the pen three times before scribbling the date in the top left hand corner. If his handwriting looked messier than usual, it was no one’s concern but his own.
Shane tried with all of his might to focus on Coach Wiebe and his words, but the truth is, his orientation speech was the same as it was every year. He covered the schedule (Shane already had it memorized), expectations (play good fucking hockey), and academic compliance (Shane never scored below 85% on an assignment in his life). The usual. Shane could have probably given the speech himself at this point.
Surely Coach Wiebe didn’t require Shane’s full and undivided attention for a fourth year in a row. Surely it was safe for Shane to steal a glance towards the back row, watching as Cliff murmured something under his breath— no doubt sarcastic— as Ilya leaned forward to get a better listen. As he did so, Shane noticed the familiar glint of Ilya’s crucifix chain under the fluorescent lighting. While his eyes were entranced by the glittering metal hanging there like a piece of solid temptation, Ilya leaned back in his seat, slouching slightly. Shane looked up to his face, expecting him to still be smiling and laughing with Cliff. He almost fell out of his chair when he was met with icy blue eyes, a crisp smirk directed towards him. Shane whipped back to the front of the room, zoning back into Wiebe’s words, but it didn’t stop the flush he could feel warming his cheeks.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t safe to steal a glance back towards Ilya. Definitely not safe.
Before he could think about it for too long, Shane tried to shake it off, putting his head back down towards the lined paper. He kept his pen moving, even though he wasn’t writing anything of note. A foot connected with his shin under the table, not hard enough to bruise but Shane still jumped at the force of it. Shane glared at the man sitting next to him, Hayden’s eyes widening at the stare he knew contained the undertone of a threat. Hayden threw a thumb towards the back of the room, hand hidden by his body so nobody else could see. He raised an eyebrow. Shane rolled his eyes and shook his head, waving Hayden off. But Hayden was relentless.
“What the hell is your deal, dude?” He whispered under his breath, careful not to draw the unwelcome attention of their coach.
“Nothing, it’s just…” Shane trailed off, but it was useless. His subconscious betrayed him when his gaze settled on Ilya for a second time.
Hayden followed Shane’s line of sight, suddenly understanding. “You skated with him this morning, didn’t you? Is he any good?” he asked out of genuine curiosity.
“Yeah,” Shane sighed, “Kind of a dick though.”
“I’ll bet.” Hayden laughed a bit to himself before continuing, “Rumor is he fucked the goalie’s sister and that’s why he got kicked off the last team.”
“Yeah, well, good thing I don’t have any siblings then,” Shane tried to dismiss the rumor, schooling his face into a neutral position, praying the discomfort that settled in his stomach at Hayden’s comment wasn’t obvious. Good God, what had Wiebe gotten his team into?
“Is something more interesting, gentlemen?” Coach Wiebe was no longer talking about plans for the practice session, instead his attention was zeroed in on none other than Hayden and Shane.
At the call out, the discomfort that was previously in Shane’s stomach dropped straight into his ass. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
“No, of course not,” he all but squeaked. Shane could feel every pair of eyes in the room shifting in his direction. This was a fucking nightmare. Thankfully, nobody laughed and Wiebe was able to push forward.
“Anyway, as I was saying… Before we get out on the ice, I want to hear about something you wish to improve upon this season. Be honest with yourselves, boys.”
Hayden left his elbow lazily draped over the armrest, sticking a singular finger in the air as if he were about to say the most intellectual thing anyone in this room had ever heard. “Uh, I’ll start, Coach. I could probably work on active listening.”
The entire room erupted in laughter. It was perhaps the stupidest shit Hayden could have said, but ironically, a great way to break the ice.
“Very insightful, Pike. I trust you mean that seriously. Any volunteers to go next?”
There wasn’t even a beat of silence before a familiar Russian accent echoed through the room. “Are we saying what other people should work on, too? Because Hollander’s backhand needs help.”
Another wave of laughter coursed through the room, everyone except for Shane himself losing it in giggles at the comment. Shane quickly dismissed the feeling of betrayal at the lilting sound of Hayden’s laughter, turning around and sending one of his classic scowls towards Ilya. The action only earned him another wink. Un-fucking-believable. Even if—okay, it was a little bit true— this guy had no right to say it in front of everyone, let alone on his first day here.
“Not exactly what I was looking for, Ilya, but I appreciate the enthusiasm. If we are making comments about what others could do better, though, please try not to look like you crawled here directly after doing a kegstand.” Wiebe was sure to make a pointed glare in the direction of a green-faced Cliff Marlow, so there was no confusion as to whom that comment was intended.
Marlow saluted from his chair, choosing to keep his mouth shut, but grinning sheepishly all the same.
“Maybe you all will have more insight on what needs to be improved after our first practice. Be out there in 15 minutes, boys!” The room erupted in conversation immediately as the players stood up and funneled into the hallway towards the locker room.
Once again, it was no coincidence that Shane and Ilya were first on the ice, considering they had a head start that morning. Shane marched out of the tunnel, resolved to ignore a certain blond curly-haired Russian boy as much as possible. However, all his plans were swiftly foiled when Wiebe’s first team split landed Ilya opposite Shane on the faceoff circle. Today was supposed to be easy, a chemistry test, an assessment of skill, something to brush off the rust from the summer. From the first puck drop, it felt like anything but.
“Shane Hollander,” the Russian accent punched out his name, but Shane kept his eyes on the ice, “Will you disappoint them?”
“Nope.” And then Shane won the faceoff.
It didn’t take long for Ilya to quickly recover, already hot on Shane’s tail. The puck slid ahead of Shane, moving in the direction of the opposing goal. Shane could see it, could see the next move he needed to make to fake out the incoming defenseman, a shadow of Cliff Marlow, opening up a pocket to slot a pass to Hayden. He reared back his stick, the weight of it balanced perfectly in his hands, putting the exact amount of power needed behind the swing. Hayden was in position, tapping his own stick twice to call for the pass.
Shane watched as the puck flew through the air, waiting for Hayden to take off with it. But the puck never made it to its intended destination. Instead, Ilya sacrificed his body for the puck, making a dive for the piece of carbon hurtling towards Hayden. It smacked his chest, dropping to the ice instantly. It didn’t even have time to clatter to a stop before Ilya’s stick was leading it away, towards Shane’s goalie. Fuck, how was that even physically possible?
Shane skated as fast as he could behind Ilya, watching him maneuver around Shane’s own defenders like they were merely a set of agility cones. Shane almost got close enough to poke the puck free, steal it back from Ilya, but Ilya had already taken the shot. It arced in slow motion, aimed at the top right corner. The net rippled as it absorbed the momentum, Ilya’s team surrounding him with hugs and slaps on the back to celebrate the goal. Shane looked away, instead skating up to Hayden.
“He’s fucking good, dude. Didn’t even see him coming.”
Shane could only breathlessly nod in response. As much as it annoyed him, there was no way he would even attempt to undermine the display of skill the McGill Redbirds just had the privilege of bearing witness to.
“I’ll make sure you get the next pass, yeah?” Shane reassured Hayden as he lined up for the puck drop. It was a battle for the next hour. Both Shane and Ilya skated like wildfire, smushing each other against the boards, so caught up in the idea of beating each other to the puck that neither of them realized the numerous occasions they abandoned their designated position on the ice. They may as well have been playing as left or right wing, with everyone else on the ice being invisible.
It was almost inconceivable how out of breath Shane was as he walked back through the tunnel sweat-soaked and hunched over. He hardly possessed the energy to support his body as he navigated his way back towards the locker room. He was satisfied with his efforts, though. His team had won, even if it was by a single goal margin. And he had bested Ilya, too. Ilya had only managed to score the opening goal. Meanwhile, by the blow of the final whistle, Shane had tallied two.
Shane usually kept his time in the shower at something under five minutes, but today, he wouldn’t be surprised if his lather and rinse came in well under that limit. Shane needed to meet with Wiebe in his office to break down his backhand, as soon as humanly possible.
He knocked politely at Wiebe’s door, despite the open door policy, just to make sure he had made his presence known before crossing the entryway.
“Hollander,” Wiebe called from his desk, beckoning him inside, not even looking up as he did so.
Shane figured Wiebe knew it was him as he was probably the only player who bothered knocking to begin with. He just didn’t want to intrude at the wrong time. He hated when his train of thought was interrupted, and figured he would extend that courtesy to others if he could.
A loud sigh pushed past his lips as he sank down into the chair in front of his coach. He tried not to wince as his thighs were basically screaming at him through the deceivingly simple motions of sitting down.
“So, how do you think the first day of training camp went?” Wiebe finally looked up at him, and Shane could feel himself unraveling under his coach’s scrutinizing gaze.
“Uh, good. Yeah… I’ll definitely be sore tomorrow.” He forced out a light chuckle. He wasn’t sure how much he should reveal to the man in front of him. How honest was too honest?
“Son, what I’m really trying to ask is… What are your thoughts on Ilya?”
“Oh.” Shane paused, being sure to pick his next words carefully. “Um, he’s a really skilled player.” Despite his best efforts, Shane’s assessment came off as more of a question rather than a statement.
“And the backhand thing?” Wiebe raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.
Shane had to give credit where credit was due. Wiebe knew his players well. He knew that Shane was bothered by the comment back in the film room.
“Yeah, it was annoying, but he wasn’t wrong.” Shane conceded.
“I can tell him to lay off if you—”
“No!” Shane exclaimed, and Wiebe jumped back a little at the startling outburst. Shane grimaced at his lack of self control. He really needed to rein it in. “Sorry Coach. It’s just that I don’t want to make it seem like I tattled to you or that I can’t take some criticism.”
“Right, but that sort of criticism should be coming from a coach, not a teammate.”
“Maybe,” Shane shrugged in response. “But it’s fine. I’ll just use it as motivation.”
“It’s funny you say that,” Wiebe hummed to himself, half-amused. However, whatever funny thought that crossed his mind was relatively short lived. Wiebe quickly schooled his face into something that appeared to be more serious. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you because I care about you, and I can see that you’re hesitant about this. You and Ilya have the potential to bring the best out of each other. I’m certain that when you go home today, Ilya might not say it, but he will be sore, too. Shane, when is the last time you’ve been sore because you’ve been training with a teammate who can finally play at your level?”
Even though he had an answer, Shane refused to provide one because he wasn't sure Wiebe would like to hear the response of ‘never.’ He just sat there in quiet contemplation, mulling over his coach’s words.
“But besides your backhand, you need to work on maintaining position. Your efforts displayed during the scrimmage were impressive, but you and Ilya were too consumed in working against each other. There were multiple times the two of you were pulled out of position. It was like no one else was out on the ice with you. And I don’t need to remind you, but hockey is a team sport.”
Those were the words that stuck with Shane as he trudged home from the rink, replaying them over and over in his head. Never in his life had he ever been told he had abandoned his position as center. He loved playing center. He’d never played anything else since the age of 10. After the meeting that afternoon, he was shocked at how much he didn’t even care about the captaincy as much anymore. At least one thing was certain: He wouldn’t let his new roommate cause him to lose sight of the most important role he could ever have. By the end of training camp, Shane Hollander would be the McGill Redbirds’ first line center.