Chapter Text
SHANE
The first flight is nerve-wracking, but thrilling. Buoyed up by excitement and confidence, Shane feels for the first time in his life like an adult. A proper independent adult, not a teenager who still lives with his parents. A man, a grown man who’s made his own decision, even if his dad tried to talk him out of it and his mom, waving as Shane walked through the security gates, looked like she was maybe about to cry.
Yeah, no, she was definitely about to cry.
Which makes him feel bad, but he would’ve felt worse if he’d passed this opportunity. Now’s the time, the perfect time. The formation this year of the KHL, the Kontinental Hockey League, is going to make ice hockey even more popular in Russia and China, and there are already some incredible players emerging from there. With their massive populations, and the way they focus on sports? It’s going to be awesome. They’re going to produce the next wave of champions. The world of hockey is changing, and Shane wants to be ahead of the curve.
And sure, it’s not like Shane is ever going to play in the KHL. He’d never want to be anywhere apart from the NHL; that’s still one hundred percent his goal. But this is such an incredible opportunity: a summer development camp in Moscow. He saw how those guys played in the International Prospect Cup. Sure, Canada won, but only just. Only because Russia was missing its star player. Shane knows he can learn heaps from these guys.
And at the same time, he’ll be earning money! The camp director’s running an English-language stream for players who are thinking about the NHL, and Shane’s going to be a tutor. Well. They’re not paying him as such, but they cut the fees nearly in half, and his dad said Shane could have the difference, so he’s earning. Kinda.
He’s never taught anyone anything before, but on the phone with his mom, Vasiliy Berezkin promised that it wouldn’t be difficult. They have a proper English teacher, but they want the players to work on their conversational skills, and the best way to do that is to have English speakers at the camp. So there’s going to be two of them—Shane and a guy from the U.S., Cody Farnham.
Conversational skills. Yeah. Shane isn’t sure whether he’s actually got any conversational skills. His dad says it’s not so hard, you’ve just got to ask questions and listen. He didn’t explain how you know what questions to ask, though. Maybe Shane should start writing a list. Like, how long have you been playing hockey? Who do you play for? What’s your training schedule?
On the first flight to London, Shane tugs out a book: The Ultimate ESL Teaching Manual. This is one of four books he stuffed into his cabin bag, which (even without that one) weighs a ton when he shoves it back into the overhead locker. There’s also a Russian/English phrase book in there, a traveler’s guide to Moscow, and a book about the Russian Five—the players who defected in the early nineties to play for Detroit, before things opened up a bit more. Director Berezkin says it’s not like that anymore, but that story didn’t exactly put his mom’s mind at rest.
Anyway, the first flight is good. They get dinner, and it’s not terrible. It’s not what Shane would want to eat, but he knows he’s going to have to try to be a bit more flexible about food for the next six weeks, so he tries it anyway. The salad and the roll are okay. The chicken is greasy, and he leaves most of it. They turn off the lights in the cabin after dinner because this is an overnight flight, although they’re going to lose half the night with the time difference, so it’s going to be morning already by the time they land.
He closes his eyes, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep.
When they arrive in London, the time has leapt ahead by five hours, and it’s two in the morning in his time, but it’s seven a.m. in London. He sets his watch to London time to make sure he doesn’t mess up and miss his next flight, even though he’s got five hours until boarding. It seemed like a really long layover when they were in the travel agents, but now he’s got to get off this plane and go through all the queues and pick up his luggage and then check in again with Aeroflot because Air Canada doesn’t fly to Moscow, and all the lines take ages. Heathrow is massive and low-ceilinged and everyone’s got wild accents and even though he’s got five hours he can feel himself getting super anxious, constantly checking his watch. His bags are literally the last two to come out on the conveyor belt, probably because he checked in so early.
He goes straight to the gate and watches as the rest of the travellers assemble. They look more serious than the people on the last flight: lots of businesspeople, no kids. He feels out of place, and he’s getting really tired, and it’s so long since he left home. It seems like a million years since he ate that last family lunch around the table, and since then he’s spent two hours in a car and three hours in an airport and nearly seven hours in a plane and then another four hours in an airport and in an hour he’ll get on another plane for another four hours; and then it’ll take an hour to get through customs and everything will be in Russian and what if they forgot they’d promised to send someone to pick him up and by then he’ll have been up for—oh god—twenty eight hours, and he didn’t sleep well last night, and—
No, he tells himself sternly. He squeezes his knees, digging his fingers in tight. No, you knew this was gonna be a long haul, but it’s fine. You can do this. You can maybe sleep on the next flight.
He doesn’t. The next flight is horrible. The plane is seedy, the flight attendants are cold and perfect but kind of scary, and everything smells like cigarettes even though you obviously can’t smoke, as if everyone who’s ever flown on this plane was a smoker. When they take off, there’s a whining sound he doesn’t like. He grips the armrest and stares at his watch. It’s just past lunchtime according to that, but it’s breakfast time in his body clock, and he really doesn’t want to eat the cold pickled vegetables or the meaty stew they put in front of him. He picks at the solid black bread and wonders how you get bread that colour.
One of the things he’d been looking forward to was flying over Europe. He’d looked at the path the plane would take, figured out the cities he might see, the mountains; but even though he’s got a window seat there’s nothing to see except endless clouds. He tries to read the phrase book, but the words swim before his hot, sore eyes. He’s never been awake this long in his life. He tries, again, to sleep, but it’s hopeless.
He wishes he couldn’t hear his mother’s voice murmuring, Well I explained this, honey. You could’ve taken a day in London. But that would’ve meant finding his way out of the airport and to a hotel, and what would he do with himself? Where would he eat? He’d just be waiting, nervous, stretching it all out. No, he’d said, I’d rather just keep going.
So here he is, keeping going. And his mom was right, it’s kind of horrible. A weird kind of sick exhaustion, and he knows he needs to sleep, but he’s wound so tight, and soon he’s going to have to navigate through Russian customs.
Seized with a sudden irrational concern, he gets awkwardly to his feet; the two people in his row look up at him, blank-faced but irritated, and they both sigh as they unbuckle and get up, letting Shane squeeze past to open the overhead locker and grab his cabin bag. Back in his seat, he holds the bag on his lap, zips it open, and confirms that his passport’s in the inner pocket. Of course it was there. He knew it was there. Where else would it be? Calm the fuck down he tells himself. Get a fucking grip.
He clutches his things on his lap for the next hour or so until the stewardess clicks her fingers at him and says something in Russian; then, when he stares at her uncomprehendingly, “Landing now. Your bag?”
She grunts when he hands it over, losing control a little, and it thwacks into the man next to him. Stupid heavy books. Stupid Shane. Stupid fucking idea, going to Russia all by himself.
What the fuck is he doing?
“Sorry. Sorry about that,” he says, over and over, but nobody says that’s okay, don’t worry about it.
Shane Hollander has been awake for twenty-nine hours and travelled just under five thousand miles when he finally sees one familiar thing: his own name, written on a piece of paper held by a bored-looking man in a brown tracksuit. It stands out like a beacon in the roaring sea of bodies, luggage, and harsh lights at Sheremetyevo Airport. There it is, in red Sharpie on an unfolded piece of paper: SHANE HOLLANDER. There he is. They didn’t forget him! The smile that flows across his face is unintentional but utterly sincere.
He waves. “Hey! Hi! Hi, that’s me, I’m Shane!” Too late he remembers the Russian word and adds, “Um, privet?"
The man with the paper nods and gives a half-smile in return, holding out his hand. A quick shake. “Welcome. I am Evgeniy Semyenov.” His English is pretty good, his accent not nearly as thick as some of the players that Shane met at the Prospect Cup.
“Oh, right. You’re, um, the English teacher?”
“Yes. And this is—” Evgeniy turns, as if he’s looking for someone, and makes a small, frustrated sound. He cranes, his neck very long and patchily shaven, and mutters something under his breath before making an irritable come here gesture and shouting, “Rozanov!”
The crowd parts as someone shoulders his way towards them, against the flow.
It’s him. It’s Ilya Rozanov. The player who couldn’t make the Prospect, ‘cos he had some injury or other. Shane’s heard all about him, about his strength and speed. They use the same words about Ilya Rozanov as they do about Shane: prodigy. Phenomenon.
And Shane should introduce himself, should hold out his hand and shake politely, but he stands there, tired and stupid and overwhelmed and hopelessly riveted by the intense blue-green eyes that are fastened on him. He blinks, drops his gaze, and his attention is arrested all over again by the most ridiculous, lush, curvy mouth he’s ever seen.
It’s not smiling. There’s an unlit cigarette hanging out of one corner. But it’s stupidly beautiful. Shane can feel himself blushing and looks away.
He’s just tired. It’s not that beautiful. It's just a mouth.
Evgeniy snaps something in Russian and then interrupts himself to say it in English: “You know you can’t smoke here.”
Rozanov starts replying in Russian, but Evgeniy says, “English!”, gesturing at Shane.
Scowling, Rozanov says haltingly, “Is why,” jerking his head in the direction he’s just come from. His voice is deep, dark, and guttural; at odds with those blue eyes and that honey-gold mop of curls.
“You can see why we need tutors, Shane,” says Evgeniy mockingly, earning Shane another angry glance from Rozanov. “Perhaps you can help Ilya say what he wants to say?”
“Um,” says Shane, racking his brains as to what Rozanov might’ve wanted to say. “Maybe, um. Maybe, um, did you mean to say that that’s why you were heading out to a smoking area? I mean, it’s probably not a great idea, smoking’s pretty bad for you. There have been thousands of studies. Have you ever seen a lung, like, from someone who smokes? They’re super gross. They go black. It can’t be good for your game.”
The two Russians regard him, flat and maybe confused. Shane feels his face heat up as if he’s being barbecued. What an idiot! He only just met this guy, and first he’s staring at him, and then he’s lecturing him!
“We go?” says Rozanov, raising one eyebrow, and Evgeniy nods.
ILYA
Semyenov is a terrible driver, and he’s talking far too much, all in English. Fucking show off. Ilya sits in the back seat, sulking. The Canadian tried to get into the back with him, but Ilya shoved him aside, said “Nyet, no,” and pointed to the front seat.
It’s about an hour’s drive from the airport to the camp, in a far-flung, dead-end suburb of Voskresensk that's full of tower blocks. Ilya wanted to stay at home for the duration and drive his new car to the camp every day, but his father said no, saying his English would never get better unless he spent time with English speakers. And it’s true, he does want to learn English. He does want to play in America. So he’s just going to have to suck it up.
Hollander isn’t saying much, though. He'd better be more talkative than this. From the seat behind Semyenov, Ilya watches Hollander’s profile. He’s sitting up very straight, his hands in his lap, his big brown eyes locked onto the road ahead. He’s got the most perfectly straight nose Ilya’s ever seen. That thing’s never been hit by a puck, that’s for sure. Ilya rubs his thumb over the bone of his own, much less immaculate, nose.
It’s hot in the car—the air conditioning is shit—and Hollander’s still wearing a thick hoodie. His face is gleaming a little, and his tongue darts out and licks sweat off his upper lip.
“Is too hot,” says Ilya loudly.
“It is too hot,” Semyenov corrects him. “You sound like a fucking Russian!”
Ilya winds his window all the way down. As if given permission, Hollander does the same.
“Is it, um, much further?” Hollander says.
“Not far. Five minutes. Are you hungry?”
It’s nearly eight o’clock and personally Ilya is starving, but Hollander shakes his head. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep on the flight, so.” He mumbles, but Ilya gets the gist of it. He understands more English than he can speak.
They pull into the hotel carpark. It’s a shitty hotel, but the camp has taken it over, and it’s only a ten-minute walk from the rink, so it’s okay. Ilya arrived two days ago with a few other players from his club, Moscow Volki, and the other players have been arriving in dribs and drabs from all around the region. The other English tutor arrived yesterday. He’s from California, and he’s rooming with Ilya’s friend Zaitsev. Hollander’s the last to arrive; Ilya picked him to share with partly so he’d get two days with no roommate, and partly because he’s heard Hollander’s really fucking good, but he doesn’t look it so far. He looks nervy as fuck. It’s hard to imagine him on the ice.
Hollander trundles his two massive suitcases behind him. Ilya doesn’t offer to take one. They’re going to take up so much space in their room; they’re hard-shelled and too big to go under the bed. He lurks behind Hollander and Semyenov as they go up to the desk, and tries unsuccessfully to eavesdrop as Hollander has some weird, anxious argument with the guy trying to check him in, with Semyenov translating. It looks like he doesn’t want to hand over his passport. Idiot, what did he expect?
Semyenov finally convinces him it’s okay, and Ilya smirks when he catches the tutor rolling his eyes behind Hollander’s back. Hollander gets his key, and Semyenov says, “Okay! Rozanov will show you to your room. See you tomorrow at the rink.”
“Oh. Okay. Um, bye. Thank you for picking me up,” says Hollander, and he follows Ilya obediently down the hall.
Ilya took the bed closest to the window. Perks of being first to arrive. He sits on it now, leaning back on the heels of his hands, and watches Hollander as the Canadian looks around the room. The curtains and bedspreads are a hideous shade of mustard, and the dirty green carpet tiles on the floor have seen a lot of questionable activities. There’s a cupboard that doesn’t shut properly because it’s already full of Ilya’s shit, and only one chest of drawers. Each bed has a small bedside table, but only one has a lamp. (The lamp was originally on Hollander’s side, but it’s not now.)
The place is pretty shitty even to Ilya’s eyes. From the look on Hollander’s face, it’s even worse in his opinion. Zaitsev reckons his Californian roommate laughed out loud and took photos. Prick.
“Okay,” says Hollander. He smiles, a tight, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Okay, so. Um. I might sleep.” He mimes sleeping as he says it, tucking a palm under his cheek and closing his eyes.
“I know sleep,” says Ilya. He’s not a fucking idiot.
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. Um. Have you been learning English long?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Um. How long? In school?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
They appear to have exhausted this topic. Hollander says nothing, just stands there looking awkward as fuck.
Ilya’s stomach rumbles loudly.
“You’re hungry,” says Hollander, a smile flickering over his face. “Sorry, you missed dinner because of me, huh?”
“Hungry, yes,” says Ilya. “I go to kitchen. For food. You want?”
“Um. No, no thanks. I might… um, bathroom?” Hollander gestures at the cupboard door, then opens it and immediately flushes bright red. It’s so cute, Ilya can’t hold back a bark of laughter.
“No. Is there,” says Ilya, gesturing in the bathroom’s general direction. He jumps up and opens the door to their room, holding it open and pointing down the hallway. “There.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure. Thanks.” Hollander peers around the door, nodding. “Okay. So we’re sharing with a bunch of guys, yeah?”
Ilya isn’t sure what this means. He says. “I go kitchen now, okay?” He pulls his room key out of his pants pocket and jiggles it. “Use key, yes?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Ilya nods and pads down the hallway.
When he comes back half an hour later, having convinced the woman in the kitchen to heat him some leftovers, he’s got Zaitsev and Nikitin with him. They both play with him at Volki—Zaitsev’s their best goalie. Nikitin’s a waste of space as far as hockey goes, but he’s usually funny and always generous with his money, so they put up with him anyway.
“Be nice,” Ilya tells them firmly as he rummages for his key. “He’s tired and kinda freaked out, I think.”
“So why do we have to invite him to come out?” grumbles Zaitsev, who’s had enough of English speakers for one day and hid around the corner when he caught sight of his roommate.
“Easy. We’re going to invite him, and he’s going to say no, because he’s just flown halfway round the world and he wants his bed, and we look like good guys without having to put up with him,” says Ilya. “He tells Berezkin we’re friendly, and we get in the good books for nothing.”
“They all say you’re stupid, but sometimes I think maybe you’re not,” says Nikitin thoughtfully. Ilya elbows him in the belly. Nikitin yelps and shoves him against the door, and they tussle, laughing, falling halfway into the room when Ilya’s key finally catches.
Hollander is fast asleep, flat on his stomach. He’s on top of the bedspread and still wearing his clothes, even his shoes. His face is slack and peaceful, open-mouthed and turned to the side; one arm is hanging off the side of the bed. Wow. He has a great ass. Most hockey players do, it’s true, but still.
“Shhh,” hisses Ilya, when Zaitsev starts giggling.
“We should get a pen. Give him a moustache,” whispers Nikitin.
“Yesss! I’ve got one in my room!”
“A friendly welcome facial tattoo. Is it a permanent marker? Go get it, Zaits.”
“No,” says Ilya firmly. “No facial tattoos.”
“I’ll do a nice one. A sophisticated one. Not, like, a dick or anything,” says Zaitsev.
“No. Leave him alone.”
Ilya hustles them out and shuts the door as quietly as he can, taking one last surreptitious (but appreciative) look at the way Hollander’s pants are pulling over his butt.