Chapter Text
December 2008
Shane was used to the cold. He'd grown up in Ottawa and was no stranger to a brutal Canadian winter, but there was something about the bite in the air the past week that kept him constantly on edge, never quite able to warm up. He felt it in his bones. He was tired, aching, but he still had a lot of hockey left to play.
It was an honor, though an expected one, to have been invited to play for Canada in the World Juniors. But that honor had come with some big expectations from his country, his coach, his teammates, and his parents. He'd been reading about it all weekend in the hockey blogosphere. Every other team had been written off in a unanimous way that Shane had never seen before. All of the pros were predicting a Canada Russia final.
Shane knew he was good at hockey. Despite always displaying humility in the few interviews his mom approved for him to give, he knew he was one of the fucking best hockey prospects in a long time. And the fact that every article referred to him as "one of best" instead of "the best" slowly ate away at him.
He spent hours after practice in the rink, running through drills and taking shot after shot on goal. He put in extra effort in the gym to strengthen the muscles activated in his backhand, and when he could convince one of his teammates to stay a little longer with him, he repeated no look passes and focused on not telegraphing his next move to the imaginary defenders.
All the extra effort had paid off. He had gotten better and better and lead his team to numerous victories, but he still hadn't been able to get rid of that "one of".
It was like a narrative had been created that he was unable to escape no matter how much he practiced or how much he tried because somehow Ilya Rozanov always got that much better too.
Shane had been following his career whenever he had the free time. He didn't have much of it, but somehow he always made time to check in on Rozanov's stats. He was like some sort of superhuman hockey freak, a lot like what Shane's teammates probably thought of him. Shane beat himself up, laying awake in bed at night after games where he'd score a respectable amount of goals only to see Rozanov had scored one more.
Shane had been pushing himself so hard throughout the early rounds of the World Juniors and had taken a hit to his left side when they played Norway that he knew he was now protecting a bit too much. The weather didn't help one bit. Canada had to win to make this all fucking worth it. And selfishly, Canada had to win because all of the hockey blogosphere seemed certain that the winner of Juniors would indicate the first pick in the upcoming NHL draft.
And fuck. Shane wanted to be first so badly.
He told himself it was because Ottawa had the first pick and it would be great to be a hometown hero. It would be great to have his parents come to every home game and maybe then he could keep dating Jessica, his girlfriend of 4 months, because she was going to uOttawa and then they wouldn't have to make things work long distance even though Shane was pretty sure there would still be problems distance or not.
But really, Shane would be happy to play for any team that drafted him, it just so happened that Ottawa had the first pick, and Shane needed to be first.
He tried to shove the thought from his mind as he rubbed his hands together to try and spark a little warmth and mentally prepare to play Sweden in a few hours in the semi-final. He was only showing up early to scope out the competition and do some game study on Russia in their game against the United States. The US played a lot like Canada and Shane could certainly learn from whatever mistakes the US made against Russia, and maybe if he was lucky, they would just beat them outright so he could finally have a leg up on Ilya fucking Rozanov.
It was a short walk from the hotel to the arena, and he was sure his coach or his parents would've yelled at him if he'd asked to be driven, something about focusing on the present and making sure to eat lunch before the game. Shane wasn't sure he'd be able to choke down anything more than a protein bar and maybe a banana, both of which he had stuffed into the World Juniors branded drawstring bag every athlete had been given on day 1 of the tournament.
And maybe he should be focusing more on preparing for the game against the Swedes, but they had a weak center and a weak goalie and Shane honestly wasn't even sure how they'd made it this far in the competition. He rounded the corner, finally with the rink in his line of sight and tried to stop his teeth from chattering as a bone chilling wind began to pick up and swirl some of the snowflakes that were currently dusting the ground. There was a boy standing outside the rink, he could tell it was one of the Russians even from the distance by the colors on his coat which was crazy given that the game was set to start in less than thirty minutes.
Shane's jaw nearly dropped when he got closer and the boy's features sharpened from a blurry mass to the unmistakable golden curls sticking out from underneath a black toque and piercing blue eyes of none other than Ilya Rozanov. He had been planning on heading straight into the arena so he could finally start to warm up when the repeated sound of something sparking made him wander over to the boy who was honestly probably the bane of his existence and partially the reason his backhand had gotten so much better.
It was almost comical when Shane realized that the sparking sound was that of a lighter as he took notice of the 'No Smoking' sign behind Rozanov in bright red bolded letters. Shane walked until he was within a few feet of Rozanov and it got almost awkward to have gone all the way over without saying anything, so he settled on, "I don't think you're supposed to smoke here."
It was honestly a stupid thing to say.
Shane knew that the moment it came out of his mouth, but it was too late to take it back. Rozanov glanced at him for what must've been less than a second before refocusing his efforts on lighting the cigarette carelessly hanging out of his mouth. "Okay."
Shane almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Was that really all Rozanov was going to say to him? Shane had spent almost two years now following Rozanov's career, training so hard to get the edge on him and finally pull ahead in the generational talent race. He didn't go out to parties like the rest of his friends, he strictly followed a performance diet put together for him by the nutritionist his mom had consulted with, and he hadn't drank ever even when his girlfriend's dad had offered them both wine during her 18th birthday dinner.
All of that just to have every pro report in the hockey blogosphere compare him with a guy who smoked cigarettes. And the worst part was, Shane couldn't help himself as Rozanov kept sparking the lighter to no avail.
He stepped closer until there was less than two feet separating them and said, "Here," as he removed his hands from his pockets and cupped them around the cigarette and lighter to help block out the wind. The cigarette finally lit, and it was only then that Shane realized his proximity to the other boy and the way his hands had been cupped so closely to his face. He felt his cheeks warm slightly as he muttered, "Sorry," and stepped back, unsure really of what he was apologizing for.
Rozanov inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out with the direction of the wind which was thankfully not blowing toward Shane. "Thank you," he grumbled, his voice low and thick with a Russian accent that Shane was surprised to find was kind of satisfying.
"Uh yeah, for sure, I mean- anytime." Shane stuttered out, looking down at the ground unsure of why he was so nervous. It wasn't like Rozanov was a celebrity, even though Shane had spent the past few years of his life following his career from the few blogs in the hockey blogosphere that reported on the Russian Junior Hockey League.
He turned to face the parking lot, his back against the same wall Rozanov leaned on as they both gazed out at nothing in silence. It was definitely awkward. Shane should probably say something else or just go inside. Going inside was probably the smarter idea.
"You're a really great player to watch." Shane winced as the words came out of his mouth and bit down hard on his tongue to stop from saying anything more embarrassing. He definitely should have just gone inside.
He heard Rozanov's slow exhale of cigarette smoke as he forced himself to stare straight ahead and avoid eye contact. "Yes. You are that too." Rozanov replied in stilted English.
Shane's jaw nearly dropped in shock and probably would have if not for the strict control he had his mouth under to stay shut and not utter another word. He couldn't help himself from glancing to the side quickly to see Rozanov looking back at him curiously. They held eye contact for a few short seconds before Rozanov dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with the heel of his Adidas sneaker. He picked it up and stuck it in his pocket while Shane watched, frozen in place, most still shut tightly.
He resisted the urge to do something stupid like introduce himself and hold out his hand. Rozanov knew who he was. Maybe. Probably. Most likely.
Shane supposed it would make sense. The Russian team had probably been watching film and highlights of Team Canada, and Rozanov's coach had probably specifically pointed out Shane, the center, who he would be taking faceoffs against just like Shane's coach had done to him about Rozanov. Shane had bit back a laugh when the coach had shown him film of Rozanov and talked about his play style as if Shane hadn't been following him for years.
Rozanov fixed him with that same curious look for a couple seconds after he stood again, he almost seemed to hesitate. "I will go now. I have a game."
Shane nodded. Because he knew that. That had been the whole reason he'd been surprised when he'd walked up a few minutes ago and seen the jacket with the Russian colors. There had to be less than twenty minutes before the game started now. Shane needed to make his way inside to get a good seat, and Rozanov needed to go put his uniform on so he could actually play in the game.
He supposed that maybe he was being rude by not responding verbally, but he really didn't trust his mouth to not say something stupid, so he stuck with the nod.
Rozanov took a couple steps forward toward the door, hesitated again, then turned slightly, "See you in final."
Shane wondered then if maybe Rozanov was just as obsessive about hockey as he was. He wondered if he'd see him in the stands later at the Canada Sweden game. He wondered, just briefly, if maybe Rozanov was a member of the hockey blogosphere and read all the articles that had already championed a Canada Russia final.
He honestly hoped not. Because then, maybe, Rozanov would be playing with the same burning fire that Shane intended to, trying to win the game not just for his country, but for that number one pick. He was being crazy, and he knew it, so maybe that was why he unclenched his jaw and allowed himself to speak again. "Hey, uh, good luck." He really needed better control over his stupid body parts because he was reaching out his hand to shake with Rozanov's before he could stop himself. He had opened the floodgates just a little bit and of course a whole damn tsunami had flown out of them.
He was never opening the floodgates again.
Rozanov glanced down at his hand for a second before looking back up at him. He grasped Shane's hand, shook firmly, and then turned with finality to go inside.
He hesitated once more when he reached the door to the arena. He didn't turn, he didn't look back at Shane, his voice was barely above a whisper but the howling wind seemingly carried it to Shane. "You will not be so nice when we beat you." He had slipped inside the arena door before Shane had a chance to reply, before he even processed what Rozanov had said.
Shane stood out in the cold for a minute longer, staring at nothing but thinking about everything. Something new and unfamiliar but not unkind settled within him as he realized for the first time this tournament, and honestly probably in a long while, he was no longer cold.
Shane felt untethered from his body as he skated aimlessly across the rink when the final buzzer rang out signaling the end of the final game. The Russian team was dropping their gear on the ice, throwing up their hands, hugging each other, yelling out cries of joy and profanity, and celebrating. Shane thought that maybe it was the worst day of his life. The only thought replaying through his head like a scratched up broken record player was all of the posts calling that the winner of World Juniors would be the number one draft pick.
Russia had demolished the United States and Canada had cruised past the Swedes but despite all of the valuable tricks Shane had noticed from watching Russia's semi final, it had not helped them in this final game.
And now, everything Shane had worked at for the past 18 years was crumbling. Realistically, he knew it wasn't the end of the world. Even if Rozanov went first, he would certainly go second. There was such a large drop off in talent after the two of them, at least so his mom thought, that he would definitely be second if Rozanov was first. He hated that he wasn't entirely sure. Because if Ottawa passed up on him with the first pick, what would stop Montreal from passing on him with the second? Or Boston with the third?
Ottawa needed a center desperately. Honestly, they needed a wing desperately too. But Montreal and Boston had veteran players at center who were good, but not great, and yet they had way more pressing needs. Montreal needed defensive players badly, and all of the Montreal fans in the blogosphere felt like they should draft only defensive players this cycle because surely at least one of them would end up being good. Boston needed a new left wing for their first line, and there was a pretty decent one who had led his college team to the Frozen Four last year and was projected to go in the top ten.
Shane knew he was spiraling. He hadn't even processed that he fell into place as captain in the back of the handshake line, half heartedly muttering good game until he felt a firm grip on his right hand and the grounding pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He looked up as he snapped back into his body. Stormy blue eyes connected with his.
"Good game." He managed out, swallowing down the feelings of jealousy and anger bubbling up inside of him. He expected a smug look to bloom across Rozanov's face, but was surprised and a little mad to find something resembling understanding and pity.
"You did good." Rozanov spoke in his stilted, heavily accented English.
"You did better." Shane replied sharply.
Rozanov tilted his head to the side slightly in a nod of acknowledgement. It wasn't completely true, except that it was in all of the ways that mattered. The Canadian team was good. Shane got along well with all of them, but while many of his teammates would play a bit in the minors before moving up to the NHL, if they ever made it, those on the Russian team who had declared for the draft would probably go right to starting, if not on the first or second line, then surely the third.
Yet, Shane wouldn't blame their loss on his teammates. He couldn't, and he wouldn't. Because after all, Russia had only beat them by one goal. He knew deep down it was circumstance. It had just been Russia's day.
"See you at the draft." Rozanov responded, finally removing his hand from the spot where it had been clasped on Shane's shoulder in some weird show of something Shane was still determining. Maybe sportsmanship?
He took a long, hot shower in the locker room until his teammates joked that he should drown his sorrows in liquor, not the shower, and Shane was so torn up about losing that he considered it for a minute. He decided that he'd finally see the team doctor about the small injuries he'd sustained in the quarter final and wondered how he was going to get through the next six months until the draft, knowing his fate had already likely been sealed.
When he got back to the hotel, he closed the tab on his computer for the hockey blogosphere that always sat open. He was somewhat of a masochist with the crazy diet he followed and all of his self imposed restrictions, but not even he was insane enough to look at the things that would be posted there now that Rozanov had surely locked up the number one draft spot. Looking at it would only be salt in the wound.
He wondered sourly if the pros would stop referring to him as "one of" and finally make a damn decision. One that had surely been decided tonight. He imagined the posts already crowning Rozanov as "the best" hockey talent in a long time, and demoting him to "the second best". He considered blocking the blogosphere from his computer, but at that point he would probably have to delete ESPN, Twitter, and Instagram too.
When he finally slept that night, it was with somewhat of a renewed determination. He would be sad only tonight. Tomorrow, he would wake up at five and hit the gym. He would do so every morning until the draft, he decided. First pick be damned, he was going to make whatever team that drafted him proud... and whatever team that passed on him sorry.