Chapter Text
FALL TERM
Ilya should have known better than to listen to Wyatt Hayes when building his schedule at Ottawa University.
Hazy was a good goalie, but that also meant he was just a little bit crazy. While Ilya typically enjoyed Hayes’ company, listening to him drone on and on about the latest Marvel movie release was more than annoying when he was registering for classes. They were supposed to take Understanding Stress Management together, but since Hazy wouldn’t stop talking long enough for Ilya to ask him which time to select before the class filled up, they ended up in two different sections. Fucking fantastic.
He had spent his first year in Ottawa enrolled at a school with a two-year program while he tried to figure out what it was he wanted to do. His father had made it very clear to him in his final year of starshiye klassy, or senior classes, that he was expected to join the KHL and bring pride to his family.
Ilya decided very early on that he would abso-fucking-lutely not be doing that, and started researching student visas. He met Wyatt Hayes through a hockey forum when he was in high school and Wyatt was the one who framed Canada as a hockey paradise.
Realistically, Ilya knew that the likelihood he would be joining a high-level Canadian hockey team his first year of university when he was coming from Russia was slim-to-none. He would have opted in for the NHL draft, but his father did everything in his power to ensure that wouldn’t happen.
So, Ilya signed up for a two-year program in fucking Ottawa of all places, hopped on a plane, and ignored his father for a few weeks until things settled down back in Russia.
In the spring term of his first year in Ottawa, Hayes introduced Ilya to his hockey coach, Brandon Wiebe. Coach Wiebe was younger, a former NHL player, and had a lot of optimism about the things Ilya could do for the team if he were willing to join.
Ilya shook his hand and began to introduce himself, but Coach Wiebe stopped him mid-sentence with a pointed look.
”I know who you are,” Coach Wiebe had said. “I watched some of your games from Juniors. You’re very talented, Ilya. What do I need to do to get you on my team next season?”
Ilya, the cocky bastard that he was, just said, “Pay for my degree,” with a smirk on his face.
Before he knew it, he was receiving information on his hockey scholarship and meeting with Coach Wiebe to discuss the academic requirements of maintaining his scholarship.
After the fall term officially began, Ilya determined that Ottawa University wasn’t so bad after all. He was grateful that his childhood best friend, Svetlana Vetrova, was an academic genius who was willing to transfer from The University of Boston to join him in Ottawa. And yes, he did have to beg her for a month straight before she finally assented, but Ilya learned a very valuable lesson over that month: persistence is key.
That was, ultimately, how he rationalized trying to catch the attention of the black-haired, beautiful boy in his damned Stress Management class that he had to sit by himself in because Wyatt Hayes didn’t tell him which section he had signed up for. Silver linings, Ilya supposed.
It took a surprisingly long time for Ilya to finally catch the eyes of the man that he noticed on the first day of lecture. The class they shared was so large that there were several sections of labs that the students were cordoned off into. Lucky for Ilya, he happened to be in the same lab as the cute, black-haired guy.
The lab class was much more intimate than their lecture hall, but the guy who Ilya had been desperately trying to find a reason to talk to was intimidating to approach. Ilya was also 90% sure that he was gay, but he was always with a beautiful, fit brunette woman who he seemed to know well. Thankfully, the woman was not in Ilya’s lab, so he focused most of his efforts on getting to know the guy there.
Ilya worked desperately to learn anything he could about the guy that had captured his intrigue, but he was nearly impossible to track down. He started by searching the class roster through his online class portal. With such a large lecture group, he had to go down the roster one by one searching for everyone on social media. He wasn’t proud of how hard he worked to find the guy, and was especially disappointed when his efforts returned absolutely no results. There were just too many guys in the class that he couldn’t find social media profiles for.
The graduate teacher assistant who led the lab was a small, jumpy guy named Christopher Grady. In their first meeting of the term, however, he introduced himself as Kip. It took everything in Ilya not to audibly scoff; he had to make a good impression on the beautiful boy who sat behind him, after all.
After Ilya had caught the black-haired man’s attention a few times in lecture, the opportunity of a lifetime finally presented itself to him in their Friday lab. Kip asked for them to turn in their research papers that were due. Ilya had written his the day it was assigned because it was all about stressors that affected university students. As an international student who had defied every expectation his father had of him, Ilya was well-versed on the stress of trying – and in Ilya’s case, failing – to maintain amicable familial relationships as a university student.
Ilya prepared to hand in his research paper when he noticed that most of the class was frozen in their chairs. Huh, he thought. He fought the urge to glance back at the boy behind him. In a bout of exasperation, Kip extended the deadline for the paper by a week and instructed those who completed the assignment to form groups of three and review their papers.
Ilya glanced around him to see who else completed the assignment. The man sitting directly on his right had his paper in hand, so Ilya turned to ask if he wanted to be in his group. From there, he would oh so casually turn around to face the black-haired man and ask him if he would like to join. It was the perfect plan. What Ilya hadn’t anticipated, however, was that the man next to him had turned around before Ilya had a chance to ask him to be in his group. He heard the angelic voice of the black-haired man agree to be in his group and knew he had to act quickly.
He spun around to face the man and his table-mate, a woman who had flirted with Ilya at a party before the fall term began. Well, Ilya thought, you can’t always win.
Ilya met the black-haired man’s eyes and said a silent prayer before he opened his mouth. “Can I join your group? I did the assignment, but it’s probably not very good,” he flashed his best innocent smile to the group hoping they would take pity on the poor Russian student who had to write a research paper in his second language.
The girl from the party leaned in the tiniest bit as she responded, “Yeah, of course.”
They traded papers and Ilya set about reading the paper from the man next to him. It wasn’t very good, which Ilya felt mean for thinking because who was he to judge, but then he remembered that providing feedback was the point of the task. He provided generic feedback and framed it as nicely as he could muster before the group switched papers again.
Because of the direction they rotated the papers, Ilya was handed the paper from the cute man sitting diagonally from him. He looked down at the paper with reverance and his eyes immediately landed on the name at the top. Shane Hollander.
Holy shit, Ilya thought, I actually know his name. He had to tamp down the urge to smile and tried desperately to read Shane’s paper. It was good. Very good. Better than anything Ilya could have ever written.
He read part of it before he realized there was no worthwhile feedback he could provide to the beautiful man sat across from him, so he sat back and waited for Shane to finish reading his paper.
After another few quiet minutes, Shane finally looked up and his warm, brown eyes melted Ilya where he sat.
“You are Shane?” Ilya gestured minutely to him with the paper in his hand.
Shane swallowed. Ilya watched his adam’s apple bob. “Yes,” he spoke timidly, “You’re Ilya?”
Ilya fought the urge to shudder at hearing his name from Shane’s beautiful, full lips. Sure, he pronounced it with three syllables instead of two and put the emphasis on the wrong vowel sound, but his voice was angelic all the same.
Ilya couldn’t help the smile that spread naturally. “Yes. Your paper is very good,” he lowered Shane’s paper.
Shane replied with a choked out laugh, “Oh, thank you. I wasn’t very happy with it. Stayed up way too late finishing it.”
Ilya felt his expression rear back in shock, “No, be happy with it. It’s very good.” His eyes lowered to his own paper nestled in Shane’s soft-looking hands, “You probably think mine is horrible. Sometimes my English is not so good, but it’s my second language so...”
A small smile spread across Shane’s face. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Wait, no, sorry,” he shook his head. “I meant— your paper was good. Yeah, there were a few minor mistakes,” Ilya felt a small smile spread across his face as Shane looked at the paper in his own hand, “but yeah, no, it’s good. I liked it.”
Ilya watched as Shane met his eyes again and a light flush appeared across his cheeks, highlighting a beautiful smattering of freckles. “Well, thank you, Shane,” he replied quietly.
Shane answered with a nod.
The girl from the party who sat directly in front of Ilya spoke to the guy sitting next to him then, but Ilya tuned her out until it was time to switch papers again. Since the girl from the party didn’t have a paper, Ilya was left without anything to do for the final rotation, so he fiddled with his pencil, picked at his nails, and silently observed Shane as he read.
Shane glanced at Ilya as he pretended to read. Ilya smiled and looked back down at where he was picking at his nails. Shane let out a breath and continued to pretend to read – his eyes tracking words too quickly to understand them.
After Kip finally called everyone back to attention and reminded them to turn in their papers the following week, he dismissed them early with the express instruction to finish their papers or make necessary edits.
Ilya shoved his paper back into his bag in front of his notebook. He waited until he heard Shane shift behind him so he could walk with him to his next class. What he hadn’t anticipated was that Shane would hurry out of the room before he even finished standing.
He pushed past the guy next to him – Mark, he was pretty sure – and followed Shane down the stairs next to their classroom.
“Shane,” he called out as Shane rushed down the stairs. Ilya hustled behind him.
“Hey, Shane,” he caught up after Shane had slowed down. “Where are you going?”
Shane frowned at him. It was such a gorgeous sight. “My next class?” he posed it as a question.
Ilya laughed, “Yes, I know, but where is next class?” He watched Shane’s face as realization settled in.
“Oh, sorry, uh, it’s a few buildings over. What’s up?”
Ilya nodded, swallowing subtly. “Okay, want me to walk with you?”
Shane shook his head, “Oh, no, that’s okay.” Ilya fought every instinct to pout. “You probably have class to get to. I’m fine, thanks though.” He nodded as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the building and walked away.
Ilya cursed under his breath in Russian and raced after Shane. “Wait! Sorry, that’s not what—” he released a loud breath, “I meant I wanted to ask you a question.”
Shane looked startled, “Oh! Sorry. What is it?”
Such a polite Canadian. Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, my English is not so good, yes? And your English is very good — you are a very good writer. I was wondering,” he looked in Shane’s eyes, unable to read his expression, “if you would help me fix my English in my paper?”
Shane went still and silent. “Uh,” he finally muttered, “I mean, yeah, sure. I’m not the best, but I could help. Want to meet at the library some time next week and we can work on it?”
The library? No, the last time Ilya went to the library, he got hounded by a one-night stand that he never texted back. He could not run the risk of something that embarrassing happening again. No, he had to get Shane somewhere that they couldn’t be interrupted.
“Ah, well,” he stalled, “I would, but I am very busy next week. I am on hockey team, so practice schedule keeps me busy.”
Shane’s face flashed in understanding. “I see,” he responded with one nod, “My roommates are on the hockey team, so...” He trailed off as he looked to the building on his left. “What about this weekend?” He met Ilya’s eyes again. “I have some time on Sunday. You can come over to my apartment?”
Alone. With Shane. In his apartment. Ilya liked the sound of that.
Shane continued, “You probably know Hayden and J.J., so they’d be cool with it.”
Ilya just barely fought back a groan at hearing those names. Of course Shane was roommates with the two most annoying guys on his team. They hated Ilya ever since he showed up for the first practice because he was better than them and Coach Wiebe put him on the first line.
Ilya replied, “I do not think this is a good idea. Sunday works, but I do not think Hayden and J.J. will like me in their apartment.” He racked his brain for a moment until the idea jumped out at him, “We can meet at cafe close by? I will send you address.” He held his hand out for Shane’s phone.
It was the perfect ploy. He would get Shane’s phone number and a date at the quiet, off-campus cafe with the prettiest boy on campus without having to worry about anyone crashing it.
Shane looked at his hand with his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. Ilya arched his eyebrow and closed his hand repeatedly. “Phone,” he said as neutral as he could muster.
“Oh,” Shane tugged his phone out of his pocket, opened it, tapped around on the screen for a moment, and then placed it in Ilya’s open hand.
Ilya typed his number in as a small smirk tugged at his lips. So, sue him! He was getting the number of the cutest guy he had ever met! He resisted the urge to put a suggestive emoji next to his name in Shane’s contacts, but he did text himself with Shane’s name and a winky face to make sure that he had Shane’s number too.
Ilya handed the phone back to Shane, "Here, I have texted myself so I have your number too. I will see you later, Shane.”
He was too giddy to prolong the encounter. He needed to get somewhere private so he could skip around or smile or jump for joy or maybe do all three.
Shane glanced down at his phone screen, “Yeah. I’ll, uh, see you later.” He nodded quickly then turned and abruptly walked toward the next building. Ilya watched for a second to ensure Shane wouldn’t look back at him and then raced down the side of the building they had been standing in front of. Once he was safely out of view of Shane, he laughed and rubbed a hand through his hair.
He never in a million years thought that a Friday would be so productive. He had one more class before he had to go home and prepare for team workouts that afternoon.
He wasn’t able to focus in his English Composition class as his professor droned on about passive and active voice. He probably should have tried harder to pay attention considering he was still regularly getting docked points on his coursework for some of his grammatical mistakes, but his phone sat heavy in his pocket with Shane Hollander’s number in it.
‧₊˚ ⋅🏒♡🇨🇦 ‧₊˚ ⋅
When Ilya returned to his apartment after team workouts, Sveta was already in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Privet (Hey),” he sat his bag down as he kicked off his shoes by the door. “Chto vy gotovite (What are you making)?”
Sveta looked up at him over a pot of boiling water, “Privet. Ya gotovlyu makarony s syrom i lobsterom (Hey. I'm making lobster macaroni and cheese).”
“Chto? Sveta (What? Sveta),” Ilya laughed, “Eto slishkom mnogo dlya uzhina (That’s too much for dinner).”
Sveta leveled him with a glare. “Eto ne dlya tebya, idiot (It's not for you, idiot).”
Ilya plopped himself down on the couch. “A dlya kogo zhe eto prednaznacheno (Oh, then who is it for)?”
Sveta watched him from her spot in the kitchen. “Ya vstretila kogo-to (I met someone),” she shrugged as she turned back to the stove.
“Svetlana Vetrova,” Ilya stood before he was conscious of it. “Kto? Kak ikh zovut? Oni privlekatel'nyye ( Who? What's their name? Are they hot )?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as she laughed.
“Ne skazhu, tochno ne skazhu, i da. Oni takiye (Not telling, definitely not telling, and yes. They are).”
Ilya groaned. “Nu zhe, Sveta. Day mne chto-nibud'. Pozhaluysta (Come on, Sveta. Give me something. Please)!" Ilya apparently wasn’t above begging.
Then, a thought occurred to him. Ammunition.
“Ya rasskazhu tebe o svoyom parne (I will tell you about my guy),” he shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
Sveta whipped her head around to look at him. “Krasavchik? Ty uznala yego imya (Pretty boy? Did you learn his name)?”
Ilya sucked his teeth. “Ya uznala gorazdo bol'she, chem prosto yego imya, Sveta (I learned so much more than just his name Sveta).”
"Skazhi mne (Tell me)!”
"Ya budu (I will),” Ilya laughed, “yesli ty rasskazhesh' mne o svoyem cheloveke (if you tell me about your person).”
Sveta groaned. “Ya rassmotryu eto (I will consider it).”
Ilya narrowed his eyes at her, “Sveta...”
She tossed her head back and sighed, “Ladno, khorosho. Khorosho, ya tebe koye-chto skazhu. No ty dolzhna vesti sebya sovershenno spokoyno i normal'no (Okay, fine. Fine, I’ll tell you something. But you have to be totally cool and normal about it).”
Ilya scoffed, “Ya vsegda otnoshus' ko vsemu spokoyno i normal'no (I am always cool and normal about everything).”
Sveta glared at him.
“Khorosho (Okay),” he cracked his neck, “Yego zovut Shane Hollander. U nego vesnushki, Sveta! Vesnushki! A segodnya ya dolzhna byla sdat' tu rabotu, kotoruyu ty pomogla mne otredaktirovat' (his name is Shane Hollander. He has freckles, Sveta! Freckles! And today I was supposed to turn in that paper that you helped me edit).”
“Kakaya-nibud' pechal'naya istoriya pro vashu sem'yu (The depressing one about your family)?” Sveta furrowed her eyebrows in focus.
“Da (Yes),” Ilya nodded. “No bol'shinstvo uchenikov ne uspeli zakonchit', poetomu Kip, assistent prepodavatelya, prodlil sdachu do sleduyushchey pyatnitsy. A yeshcho mne udalos' pogovorit' s Shane Hollander i prochitat' yego rabotu. I Sveta, on takoy umnyy. Takoy umnyy i takoy krasivyy (Except the majority of the class didn’t finish them so Kip, the teacher assistant, extended it to next Friday. And I got to talk to Shane Hollander and read his paper. And Sveta, he is so smart. He’s so smart and so pretty).”
“Khorosho (Okay),” Sveta nodded as she poured the pasta into the water on the stove and stirred, “I chto dal'she (and then what)?”
Ilya smiled, “A potom ya sprosila yego, ne mog by on pomoch' mne otredaktirovat' moyu rabotu, potomu chto moy angliyskiy ne ochen' khorosh (And then I asked him if he would help me edit my paper because my English isn’t so good).”
Sveta scoffed. “Ty, osol (You ass),” she muttered.
“A potom (And then),” Ilya continued, ignoring her comment, “on soglasilsya i dal mne svoy nomer. My idom na svidaniye v voskresen'ye (he agreed and gave me his number. We’re going on a date on Sunday).”
Sveta turned and stared at him for a quiet moment. “Svidaniye (Date)” she asked.
"Da (Yes)."
“A znayet li mister Shane Hollander, chto eto svidaniye (And does Mr. Shane Hollander know it’s a date)?” she arched an eyebrow at him daring him to lie.
Ilya shrugged, “Podrobnosti. On idot so mnoy na svidaniye v voskresen'ye. My budem obshchat'sya i uznavat' drug druga poblizhe. Interesno, pozvolit li on mne yego potselovat' (Details. He’s going out with me on Sunday. And we’re going to talk and get to know each other. I wonder if he’ll let me kiss him)?” He glanced up dreamily.
Sveta laughed, pulling him out of his fantasy. “Konechno (Sure),” she muttered, “udachi tebe s etim (good luck with that).”
Ilya straightened up where he stood, “Khorosho, ya zhe tebe skazal. Teper' skazhi mne sam. Kto etot chelovek (Okay, I told you. Now you tell me. Who is this person)?”
Sveta hummed in thought as she stirred the pasta again. “Eto yeshcho sovsem nedavno, poetomu ya ne budu nazyvat' yeyo imeni, no eto devushka. Ochen'-ochen' krasivaya devushka. My prosto druz'ya, i ya ne mogu ponyat', khochet li ona chego-to bol'shego. Poetomu ya priglasil yeyo k sebe segodnya vecherom, i my provedom vremya vmeste (It’s still new, so I won’t give you their name, but it’s a girl. A very, very pretty girl. We’re just friends, and I can’t tell if she wants to be more. So I invited her over tonight and we’re going to hang out).”
She spun then and pointed her wooden spoon at him, “Znachit, eto znachit, chto vy (So that means you)—”
“Da-da, derzhis' podal'she (Yeah, yeah, stay out of your way),” Ilya held his hands up in surrender. He knew the script. He nodded, “Khorosho, ya posmotryu, zanyat li Wyatt. Ty mozhesh' ostat'sya v kvartire odna segodnya vecherom. Napishi mne do polunochi, chtoby ya znala, nuzhno li mne perenochevat' u Wyatta ili net (Fine, I’ll see if Wyatt’s busy. You can have the apartment to yourself tonight. Text me before midnight so I know if I need to crash at Wyatt’s or not).”
“Vy ponyali (You got it),” Svetlana nodded as she stirred the pasta again and prepared to drain it.
Ilya smiled as he walked to his room. He couldn’t even be upset that he was being kicked out of the apartment. Because he had a date. On Sunday. With Shane Hollander.