Chapter Text
August 2006
Shane blew out a harsh breath, eyes narrowing as he set his aim on the net ahead of him. He adjusted his grip on his stick, and shot.
Ping.
“Fuck.”
Scowling, he set up a second shot, thinking about it even less.
The puck sank squarely into the top left corner of the net, exactly where he wanted it.
He could feel the cold sweat dripping down his neck as he set up shot after shot, ignoring the clock on the wall ticking down the minutes until his least favourite day of the year officially started.
Shane’s family was one of the plenty who billeted kids for the Ottawa 67s, and every year, they got a new NHL hopeful taking up space in Shane’s house, sitting on Shane’s couch, chirping about people that Shane knew and had played with since he was a kid, being annoying at Shane’s rink.
It was fucking infuriating.
He had a routine, a system, and for nine months out of the year, it was sent to shit.
His mom had told him that he was being ridiculous more times than he could count, especially considering this isn’t exactly new for them. They’d been billeting since before Shane was born, and his life had been a constant stream of kids in and out of his house. He’d even liked some of them when he was younger, but he’s fifteen now.
Hockey was everything to him.
It always had been, but now, it’s everything in a way that means more. He’s gotten international recognition multiple times, scouts at basically every game, and is officially playing in the Major Junior leagues this year. Shane doesn’t brag, he’s just the exception.
Now, it’s time to be serious, and every one of those guys that comes through his home is a threat.
(He can all but hear Rose in his brain now, telling him how dramatic he is. Pot, meet kettle.)
Shane’s eyes snapped up as he heard the rink door slam, and he saw his mom approaching the glass with that look on her face. He sighed, rolling his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
“Shane, honey. C’mon. You promised you’d wrap it up half an hour ago.” Yuna Hollander’s voice echoed over the empty rink, and Shane glanced at the clock. She was right, as usual - the clock read 2:15, and they had to pick up the kid at the airport at four. He’d been there for hours at this point, and he knew he was gross.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll clear up and head home.”
Yuna simply shook her head and spun around, clicking away on her heeled feet.
Shane let the scowl take over his face as he scooped up the pucks, dumping them into their bucket as he plodded off of the ice. Less than two hours before the worst months of the year officially kicked off.
⚻
Ilya fidgeted with the strap on his backpack as he stood in the vestibule of Ottawa International Airport. His headphones were cracking with the volume of the music blasting into his ears, but he was barely paying attention.
His eyes tracked every person who crossed his path, looking for the faces he’d only seen in pictures so far, and he chewed on the inside of his lip as he continued to wait.
The Hollander family was infamous in the billet community - almost every one of their billet sons had gone on to play in the NHL, with many of them directly crediting Yuna and David Hollander for their achievements. When Ilya had been matched to them, he had felt a thrill of excitement. This could be it. This could be his break.
There was only one annoying bump in the road: they had a son Ilya’s age. Shane.
Shane came with his own list of achievements, a list that was as long as Ilya’s. With his records as the top scorer, fastest skater, and most heavily medalled player in Ottawa 67s history, let alone in the entire U18 division, Shane was on the fast track for an NHL draft before he even graduated high school. His records were immaculate, his shot average insane, his athleticism on the ice was practically legendary. Nobody could touch him.
Well. Except for Ilya.
Ilya held records of his own, all of which mirrored Shane’s almost exactly.
He’d been breaking stats in the states since he was in the Peewee league. Once he hit 14U, he was unstoppable. He could have had his choice of AAA programs to go into, but he chose to billet in Canada for a reason (much to the chagrin of his father).
That reason was beating Shane Hollander at his own game, and then thanking Shane’s parents once he came out on top of the NHL draft.
Ilya’s eyes hadn’t stopped keeping tabs on the door as his mind spiralled, so when the doors slid open and a gorgeous woman stepped through them, he straightened up, ripping his headphones out of his ears.
Yuna Hollander smiled at him widely, waving a manicured hand high. She was trailed by her husband David, and Shane. His face was stoic, mouth set in an indifferent line, and his shoulders were broad and unmoving as his hands stayed firmly in his pockets.
Ilya smirked, then immediately schooled it into a much more professional smile as Yuna quickly approached.
“Ilya Rozanov, I assume?” Yuna wasn’t asking, as much as telling.
Ilya nodded, taking the hand she extended towards him. “Yes, ma’am, that’s me. It really is a pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at Shane, who was staring at him with guarded eyes. “All of you.”
Ilya let his smirk slip back for the briefest of moments, but Shane made no move to acknowledge it.
The final round of introductions happened as Ilya figured they would, slightly awkward, but nothing he wasn’t able to handle. He’d turned the charm onto 100 the second they approached, and he fully intended on keeping it there.
When he had reached his hand out to Shane to shake, there was only a brief moment of hesitation from the other boy’s end before he took Ilya’s hand in a tight grip, shaking once before dropping it like it burned.
Shane didn’t say a single word to him the entire car ride, only responding to his parents with a hum or short answers.
Ilya couldn’t help himself from trying to figure this kid out.
Shane Hollander wasn’t exactly known for his personality, on or off the ice.
He didn’t need to be - not with his talent.
Ilya had only figured he’d be… nicer, maybe? His parents were incredible. In the forty minutes Ilya had known them, they had shown him nothing but smiles, interest in his life, and had given him their undivided attention. They were living up to their reputations as ‘the best’, and Ilya was confused as to how their son could be this standoffish, borderline rude.
Whatever. Ilya didn’t need Shane Hollander to be his friend, no matter how much he was intrigued by the way he could feel Shane’s anger radiating off of him, or by the way Shane’s brow furrowed when Ilya laughed in response to something his parents said, or by the way Shane’s hair fell in front of his eyes when he stared down at his lap, unmoving and silent.
Shane had been instructed to show Ilya to his room when they arrived at the Hollander home.
Ilya could tell he wasn’t pleased about it, but he made no move to object as he started through the house.
He barely looked around him as he stared at the back of Shane’s head. Shane’s hair was still slightly damp, but not as damp as it had been at the airport. He must have just showered before they got in the car to collect Ilya. He wondered if Shane had been to the rink that day, or if he had gotten a late start to his day, or-
“Bathroom’s there. We’ll be sharing that one, so just… try to keep all your shit straight. Please.”
Ilya blinked. He glanced at the door Shane had briefly gestured to, and they continued on down the hallway.
“My mom does laundry on Thursdays, but gear gets washed every night if you need it. There’s a closet downstairs with extras if you need anything.” Shane’s words sounded stale, like he was reading from a script.
Ilya hummed. “Sounds good. I’ll be sure to thank her.”
He ignored the soft scoff that came from Shane.
They stopped in front of an open door, and Shane gestured in.
“This is you.”
He stepped aside, and Ilya took his spot in the doorway.
The room was objectively great. Light grey walls, big windows with blackout curtains, photos and art scattered throughout, and a decently sized bed covered in a plush blue duvet. There was a desk, a closet, and a bookshelf along the walls, and a clothes hamper next to the door. The sun was shining in, but Ilya couldn’t see a single speck of dust floating in its light.
The room was very, very nice. When Ilya told Shane so, the other boy merely shrugged.
“My parents care.”
Ilya dropped his backpack on the ground with a thud, and turned to face Shane full on.
Now that they were closer than before, Ilya could see that he was a few inches taller than Shane. He could see Shane notice too, and bit away his grin as he saw Shane try to subtly stand as straight as possible.
“Where is your room?” Ilya couldn’t help but ask. Shane frowned.
“Across the hall. You won’t need to go in there.”
Ilya threw his hands up, finally grinning. “Christ, dude, message received. I just wanted to know.”
He stepped away from Shane, and plopped himself down on the bed, leaning back on his arms. He kept his eyes on Shane, who still stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking anywhere but at Ilya.
“My dad will be up here with your suitcases in a minute. I’m, um.” Shane trailed off, and Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t have to hang out, Hollander. I can tell you’ve got other places to be.”
Shane looked at him then, and nodded once.
He didn’t say goodbye as he quickly left the room.
Ilya felt his smirk drop, and he sighed as he collapsed onto the bed.
He closed his eyes as his head hit the mattress, and he took a deep breath. His long day of travel was finally catching up with him, and he could feel the tiredness in his chest settling, the aches from the airplane seat twinging in his muscles. The scent of soft laundry soap invaded his nostrils, and he rubbed his fingers against the threads of the duvet.
He didn’t get nervous, not really. He wasn’t even nervous now.
Something about Shane was bothering him, though. Ilya had his own reputation on the ice, and while it wasn’t overly friendly, it wasn’t exactly as cold as Shane was behaving. He truly had no idea if Shane had looked him up before he arrived - he could only assume that Shane had done as much research as Ilya had.
He took the few minutes before David arrived to just breathe, the sun warm on his face.
He figured he should call his dad to let him know he arrived, but he couldn't bring himself to sit up and grab his phone from the bottom of his backpack.
Ilya didn’t hear David come in a few minutes later, and he didn’t hear the quiet chuckle as David placed the suitcases in front of the closet, and gently closed the door behind him as he left.
⚻
Shane put the dishes on the table with a little more force than necessary. He could hear quiet voices from the kitchen, and his mom’s laughter.
He wasn’t feeling particularly giggly tonight.
Ilya had been missing since they arrived, and now it was dinner, and Shane knew his mom was about to send him to collect. He wanted nothing less than to be an errand boy for yet another hockey season, but it was inevitable.
When her call came from the kitchen, he merely sighed, and headed upstairs with heavy feet.
Ilya’s door was closed, and Shane paused at the door.
He listened for a moment, and heard nothing. He knocked, gently. Nothing. He knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing.
“Come on, dude.” Shane muttered to himself, and gingerly pushed open the door. The room was dark, the only light being from the streetlamp outside shining in the dusk.
Shane’s eyes landed on the bed, and he saw Ilya, fast asleep in almost the same position Shane had left him in hours ago.
His curly hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and his mouth was slightly open, chest rising and falling as he breathed. His face was soft, and his hands were clenched into fists where they lay above his head.
Shane felt like a creep, watching him like this, but he found that he couldn’t help it.
He’d done his due diligence researching Ilya, once he’d found out their billet was him.
Ilya was ruthless on the ice, and he was known for what could only be described as his prey drive. Always dialled in, there was rarely a shot he didn’t take (and score), a hit he didn’t knock, a move he didn’t perfect. His stats were intense.
He was truly, genuinely Shane’s equal, in almost every way.
Ilya had attitude that Shane didn’t. He chirped on and off the ice, he made friends (but more enemies, if the chat pages were true), he was already great in the room, and he was known for his ability to make anyone root for him, no matter who you started out rooting for.
The boy asleep on the bed in front of Shane didn’t resemble his rep at all.
“Ugh.” Shane whispered out loud, and stepped into the room.
He grabbed at Ilya’s ankle, shaking it. “Hey.” He shook again, a little harder than necessary. “Wake up. Dinner.”
Ilya’s eyes fluttered open, and they immediately landed on Shane. He watched as Ilya’s eyes darted down to where Shane’s fingers were wrapped around his ankle, and Shane quickly dropped his grip.
“You slept all day.” Accusatory. Too mean.
Ilya’s eyes widened, and he sat up, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry. Are your parents totally mad?”
Ilya seemed a little too worried, and Shane had to recover this epic fumble of a conversation.
“No, no way. They figured you’d sleep it off, most guys do.” Shane hoped that was enough, because Ilya’s face was tight, tense.
What a way to be woken up. Shane would have freaked out too.
Ilya huffed, and pressed both hands against his eyes, rubbing hard.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Shane nodded.
“Cool.”
Cool? Loser.
Ilya glanced at him, and the start of a small smile began to grow on his face.
Nope.
“Come downstairs when you’re ready. Soon, though.” Shane turned away, then turned back around. “Please. And thank you.”
He practically ran out of the room, and heard a soft laugh echo behind him as he took the stairs two at a time.
Shane stopped once he reached the dining room, and gently knocked his head against the doorway.
“Fucking ‘please and thank you’?” he muttered to himself, dragging his hand down his face. “Get a grip.”
Ilya appeared a few minutes later, wearing a new shirt and jeans, and Shane could tell he’d run his fingers through his hair to try and tame whatever was happening on the top of his head - to no avail.
Yuna and David greeted him with wide smiles, and Shane kept to himself once they sat at the table. Ilya was across from him, and Yuna and David were at opposite ends of their small dining table.
Ilya slipped into conversation easily, laughing at David’s jokes, smiling at Yuna, offering his own quips and pieces as they ate, but Shane couldn’t focus on anything in particular. He heard small things, like Ilya talking about his father and brother back in Boston, and like his plans for after graduation (drafted into the NHL, which was a shocking revelation all around).
But mostly, he stared at Ilya’s hands.
Shane watched as Ilya twiddled with the fork, twisting it around and around in his fingers, and as he crumpled a napkin up in his palm, and as he smoothed the napkin back out against the table.
He watched as Ilya’s fingers wrapped around his water glass, and brought it up to his mouth, then set it back down on the table, carefully placed over the preexisting ring of condensation on the tablecloth.
He told himself that it was easier than making eye contact with the boy sitting in front of him, whose curious blue eyes were boring holes into Shane’s head, and definitely easier than joining in the conversation in any way that mattered.
After dinner, he did his usual job of cleaning up, but was startled to find Ilya following him, holding dishes in his hands.
“You don’t have to help me. It’s my chore,” Shane fumbled with a knife, and he watched as Ilya caught it before it clattered to the floor.
“It’s no trouble. I want to help.” Ilya handed Shane the knife, a polite smile on his face. Shane took the utensil, and swallowed away his snarky reply before simply nodding, turning back into the kitchen.
It was silent between them as they cleaned, except for when Ilya asked where the Tupperware was, and when Shane told him, and when Shane showed him how to use the garbage disposal, and then when Ilya asked him where the dishes went, and when Shane showed him the very particular way Yuna liked her dishes stacked.
Ilya followed each instruction to a tee, and Shane found himself glancing over at Ilya more than he liked. Ilya’s face was focussed, more than he would have expected for the monotonous task of washing and drying dishes, and he was careful with the dishes as he slid them into their spots in the cupboards.
When they were done, they stood in awkward silence for a moment.
Shane once again couldn’t help himself.
“Usually we watch a movie after dinner. Mom and dad let the billet kids pick the movie their first night, so,” Shane shrugged, “That’s you.”
Ilya cocked an eyebrow, putting down the carefully folded dish towel on the counter.
“Any movie?”
Shane shuddered inside. He had hated almost every movie that had been chosen. The kid last year had chosen some stupid movie about fast cars, and Shane had spent the entire two hours cringing.
“I mean. I guess?”
Ilya nodded slowly, and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “Can I put sweats on, or do you guys hang out in your regular clothes?”
Shane felt the laugh leave his mouth before he registered it, and he didn’t miss the smile that flashed across Ilya’s face.
“You can definitely wear sweats to watch a movie. They’re strict, but not that strict.”
Ilya nodded again, meeting Shane’s eyes. “Cool. I’ll be right back.”
Ilya disappeared from the kitchen, and Shane did not watch him leave.
Ilya Rozanov was a lot of things, according to the grapevine. Snarky, rude, wickedly smart on the ice, even smarter with his constant chirping and needling, and a solid reputation as a terror to all who know him. So far, though, Shane had yet to see any of that from this season’s billet kid.
Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst year ever.
⚻
September 2006
Shane was wrong. Devastatingly, horribly, laughably wrong.
Day one of the 67s practice camp had brought out a new side of Ilya that Shane hadn’t seen over the first three days Ilya had been in Ottawa. He had attacked the ice like a man possessed, checking other players around with a tooth-baring grin, and scoring on plays that seemed impossible. He was an incredible team player, but his confidence in himself and his ability was miles ahead of everyone. His charisma was infectious, and no matter how hard he played on the ice, he drew people to him like moths to a lamp - or like flies to a larger than life turd.
The rest of the team was left dripping sweat and gasping every day, trying to keep up with him.
Everyone except Shane, of course.
Ilya was on his ice, on his turf. He wouldn’t be easily letting him forget it.
After a particularly brutal day, Shane was frustratedly throwing off his gear when Ilya entered the locker room, trailed by a few other boys.
They were lapping up his antics with wide smiles and loud laughter, and Shane’s scowl deepened on his face as he faced into his locker.
Ilya’s cubby was across the room from him, and he could see it if he twisted his head the barest amount.
Ilya sat on the bench in front of it like a king holding court. His hair was damp, curls sticking to his glistening forehead as he stripped himself of his undershirt. A gold chain dangled around his neck, laying low on his chest, and Shane watched as he slipped it in between his teeth as he bent to unclasp his shin pads.
He turned away.
A bitterness had started growing in his chest over the last few weeks.
Ilya was on his heels constantly. During warmups, he was there. During drills, he was there, keeping up with Shane far longer than anyone else. During plays, he was snatching pucks from Shane by any means possible. Shane had had the damn puck stolen from him more times during the last two weeks than in his entire life, and it was always Ilya.
It was like he was determined to show him up, and no matter what Shane did, Ilya didn’t ease up. He found himself working harder than he ever had, and it wasn’t even the start of the season. It was barely September.
“Hey, Hollander!”
Shane’s head lifted as his name was shouted over the music and voices in the locker room. He rolled his eyes, hard, and turned to where Ilya was now walking towards him. He held his shower caddy in his hand, and a towel slung over his shoulder, and he stopped next to Shane, leaning on the cubby wall between them.
Shane’s nose wrinkled. “You fucking reek, dude.”
Ilya laughed, loud and barking. “So the fuck do you. Can you tell Yuna I’ll be back late tonight, like, after dinner late? A few of us are going to the arcade, and Tevo's driving. She doesn’t have to save me anything.”
Shane ignored the weird pang in his chest as he shrugged, silently sitting to finish taking off his gear. Ilya stood above him, and Shane could feel himself being watched.
“Do you... want to come? There’s room in the car.”
Ilya’s voice wasn’t as loud as it was a moment ago, and Shane dared to glance back up. Ilya’s eyes were trained on him, and Shane could see them moving across his face, searching for something Shane was sure wasn’t there.
Shane did what he did best.
“Absolutely not. Full offence to you, there are a ton of things I’d rather do.”
Ilya’s eyebrows raised, and he grinned down at Shane. “Oh yeah? Like what, review tape to count all the pucks you let go? Or maybe how many times you tripped on your own feet trying to keep up with me?” Ilya’s teasing drew the attention of a few of their teammates, and the latest chirps brought a soft chorus of “ooh”s that made Shane flush angrily.
“Fuck you, Rozanov. Maybe try being a team player instead of acting like you’re the only one on the goddamn ice, and you won’t have to work so hard to pretend you’re on my level.” Shane stood, and Ilya’s grin slowly morphed into something else. Something nastier, meaner.
“Oh, yeah? I’m skating circles around you out here, Hollander. The only thing that’s hard is how hard you get sent into the boards every five minutes.” Ilya’s words were still calm, but under the surface Shane could see the irritation seeping through.
Shane pressed on.
“I don’t know how they trained you in Boston, but here,” Shane pointed out at the room, “being a cocky asshole doesn’t get you points. Better be careful, they’re going to think you’re overcompensating for something.” Shane couldn’t help himself from darting his eyes down to Ilya’s waist, then back up, eyebrows raised antagonistically. This chirp earned him his own rewarding chorus, but this one seemed to phase Ilya least of all.
Ilya merely grinned, and shrugged.
“I’m not too worried about that. You, on the other hand, should worry about how you’re going to keep hold of that ‘C’ once the season starts, because…” Ilya took a step towards Shane, who stiffened as the other boy leaned in, teeth bared in his mouth.
“I’m comin’ for it, Hollander.”
The room exploded in hoots and laughter as Ilya stepped away from him, not breaking their eye contact until he turned to head into the showers.
“Jesus Christ, he is a dick.” Hayden Pike plopped onto the bench next to where Shane stood. Shane could feel his fingernails digging into his palms as he stared after Ilya, cheeks burning.
“Yeah. A fucking massive one.”
⚻
Ilya wasn’t often bothered by chirping, from anyone. It didn’t affect him either way, especially when it wasn’t rooted in anything factual. He was 15, not 12. He’s past that now.
However, he found that he was particularly affected by chirping when it came from Shane Hollander. That boring little bastard had looked so smug when he made a crack at Ilya.
He knew Shane didn’t have a single leg to stand on, about literally anything, but as Ilya scrubbed the sweat out of his hair, he couldn't help himself from feeling the growing irritation over it.
Ilya had trained with some of the best young players in junior league (and NHL) history, and had personally been coached by the coaching team at Boston College. He routinely played alongside collegiate athletes back home, and knew exactly what to do in almost any possible situation on the ice. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. He was allowed to be cocky, because he had earned that much. He never felt unwanted on the ice, and he sure as hell wasn’t going unneeded.
Off of the ice, however, was another story.
He had been staying at the Hollander home for almost a month, and the tension between him and Shane had become palpable. He was good at faking chummy when Yuna and David were around, and so was Shane, but as soon as they left the room the brick wall immediately came up. They barely talked, except for when necessary, and even then it was as short as possible. They’d run into each other in the morning, and it was like passing a stranger at the grocery store (only worse, because Ilya was the direct object of said stranger’s disdainful glares). Ilya would catch him staring sometimes, only for Shane to immediately look away like he’d been caught looking at something awful.
It’s not like Ilya wasn’t trying to be the bigger person. Sometimes.
He’d grab their bags for them as they were leaving (Shane would always yank it out of Ilya’s hands like he was going to dirty it), he’d let Shane take the front seat almost every day (like Ilya would ever feel comfortable enough sitting in the front seat of Yuna’s car when her son was right there), he’d even thrown Shane’s practice gear into the washing machine along with his own a couple times. He had offered to let the asshole come with them to the arcade that night, for fuck’s sake (Hollander would never have gone, but at least Ilya was extending the invitation).
Here at the rink, though, it was the worst.
This was Shane’s domain. He may as well own the place. Ilya knew it. The whole fucking team knew it.
He didn’t know why he had said that thing about stealing the ‘C’. He knew the captaincy was Shane’s, no doubt about it. But he just needed something to get under his skin, and fuck him if it didn’t.
He finished his shower in a rush, and didn’t spare a glance towards Shane’s empty cubby as he exited the locker room.
Ilya returned to the Hollander home after dinner, as he told Shane he would. He’d texted Yuna to make sure she got the information, and she had sent back a heart (whether or not that had made Ilya smile, he’d never tell).
The house was quiet when he walked in the front door, except for the movie playing from the living room. It was late enough for him to know that Shane was already upstairs, and he’d probably find David asleep in the armchair, while Yuna was most likely reading through one of her hundreds of books she kept in the house.
To his surprise, he walked into the kitchen to see Shane sitting at the counter. He had a steaming mug in front of him, and he was stirring its contents absently as he flipped the pages of a book. His eyes flew up as Ilya walked in, and he immediately made a move to leave, slamming his book shut.
Ilya huffed, and dropped his gear bag by his feet.
“Alright, I’m tired of this shit.”
Shane stopped, raising his eyebrows.
“What shit?” His tone dripped with condescension.
Ilya scoffed, staring at the other boy in front of him. “This catty shit. We’re not girls, man. If you’ve got a problem with me, just fucking tell me instead of acting like this.” He kept his voice calm enough to elicit a reaction, and when Shane’s forehead scrunched into a familiar scowl, he knew he’d succeeded.
“If I’ve got a problem?” Shane shook his head as he spoke, and laughed harshly. He crossed the kitchen to dump his mug into the sink - cocoa, Ilya could see now - and let the mug fall against the metal with a loud clatter. “I’d love to give you the list of all my problems, and considering most of them start and end with you, it wouldn’t take long to go over. Do you want them highlighted, or are bullet points enough? Maybe I should put them on the projector, just in case we want to go over all the clips of you allegedly kicking my ass afterwards.”
This was very unlike Shane, whose eyes Ilya watched narrow, and his mouth snarled the words out in contempt.
“I mean, it’s every fucking day, man. You don’t shut the hell up, ever. You come in here, acting like you’re some big shot from the big city, coming to save us out here in bumfuck Ottawa, huh? Gonna rip the ‘C’ right off my sweater? Christ, you can’t let me have one fucking thing, can you?” Shane had crossed back to Ilya, and was now standing directly in front of him, his voice raised to a level Ilya knew would bring Yuna and David into the room any minute.
Shane didn’t stop.
“You know, there have been a lot of shitty guys who have come through here, and all of them wanted the same thing, but none of them have been such a massive dick about it. I don’t know what the fuck I ever did to you, but you better remember that you’re in my fucking house, and this is my fucking city, and it is my fucking ‘C’ on that jersey.”
Shane was practically spitting at Ilya.
They were standing chest to chest, and Ilya could feel his heavy breathing through his sweatshirt. They stood, staring at each other as footsteps creaked down the stairs.
Ilya could either make this better, or infinitely worse. For his own sake, he tried to choose the better option.
“That’s a lot of words to just say you’re insecure, Hollander. Maybe you shou-” Ilya was cut off as Shane shoved him into the doorway, palms placed flat on his chest as he pushed. The breath knocked out of Ilya as the corner of the wall hit him square in the back, and he could feel Shane’s hands fisting in the fabric of his sweatshirt.
“You fucking asshole.” Shane growled, and Ilya couldn’t stop his own hands from lifting to wrap around Shane’s wrists to push him away. His hand connected with Shane’s jaw first, though, and he pushed at Shane’s face with an open palm.
Shane wasn’t weak, that was for sure. He kept Ilya pinned to the wall as they snapped at each other, faces close enough to feel each other’s breath, hands aiming for wherever they could manage, and when Shane was finally yanked away, Ilya could feel his cheeks burning bright.
“What in the hell is happening here?” Yuna’s voice was full volume, louder than Ilya had heard her - Shane too, apparently, for he immediately stilled, his eyes going wide as he spun to face his mother.
Ilya wiped at his face, and when he brought his hand away from his face, the back of his hand had a small strip of red staining his skin. He must have bitten his lip. Neither of them had actually gone so far as to land a punch, but Shane looked like he’d murdered someone as he stared at his parents, one of which still had a firm grip on his collar.
“I’m- we- I mean,” Shane’s panicked eyes darted between them, and Ilya sighed.
Jesus Christ.
“It was my fault. I egged him on. I was being a jerk, and I deserved it.”
Shane whipped around to face him, disbelief written on his face. Yuna stared Ilya down with a horrifically effective motherly stare, and she shook her head, wrapping her arms across her chest.
“I don’t know what happened, or what’s been going on between you two, but enough is enough. You’re both under our roof, which means you both have to follow our rules.” She looked between Ilya and Shane, who was staring at the ground, cheeks redder than the blood on Ilya’s lip. “Until you learn to figure your shit out like grownups, you’re both on house arrest. Indefinitely.”
Shane’s eyes lifted then. “Mom, come on.”
Even Ilya made a small noise of protest, but Yuna’s hands pointing at them shut them up immediately.
“Nothing but school and the rink. Two weeks at minimum, and that’s final. Now, go to bed.” Yuna stepped aside, and pointed up the stairs. Shane took off like a shot, not once looking back.
Ilya hadn’t felt this shitty in a long time. Not about Shane, or whatever. But the way Yuna and David were looking at him was enough to make his stomach turn, and his chest ache.
“I’m really, really sorry. I don’t know why I did what I did, but I can figure out a different billet, or I can-” Ilya was once again cut off by a Hollander as Yuna placed her hands on his shoulders.
“Ilya. Honey. We’re not going to kick you out for this. It was just a disagreement that could have been handled better. Besides, we both know it wasn’t just you being a little bit of a jerk.” Yuna squeezed him gently, and Ilya let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
No matter his feelings on Shane, he really did like Yuna and David (on top of the opportunities that they could set out for him that would be life changing). They were never unkind or unfair, they made sure Ilya was properly registered for school, they’d put Ilya on the car insurance, for fuck’s sake. And this is how he repaid them?
His dad would have had him out on the street before he could blink.
“Go on upstairs, and we’ll see you in the morning.” David clapped a hand to Ilya’s shoulder, and he nodded at them gratefully before mounting the stairs.
He could hear angry hissing words from Shane’s room, but he didn’t stop to take them in as he walked into his own room, closing and locking the door behind him.
⚻
It had been almost two weeks without incident, and Shane was just waiting for an ember to explode into a flame.
Ilya had fallen into ignoring Shane completely, unless they were on the ice. He’d follow Shane’s calls to play, doing his duties with all the careful, intense precision as before, but now, he gave Shane a wide berth.
Ilya hadn’t sent him into the boards or tripped him in weeks. He’d kept up the energy with everyone else on the team, laughing and sneering and chirping as usual, but it was as if Shane didn’t exist except to pass pucks to. He didn’t cheer when Shane scored, he didn’t boo when he missed. He was just… there.
Against his own wishes, Shane found himself missing it.
Something about the way that Ilya got under his skin, constantly pushing him harder, it was interesting.
It’s not like he didn’t have friends on the team or at school - Hayden was his best friend, and had made all the same teams as Shane after all these years. He’d seen first hand how awful Ilya had been at the beginning, and he’d remarked more than once about how different Ilya was now.
“I don’t think you should be too upset about it, buddy. It’s not like you guys would ever be friends anyway, so you may as well be okay with just, like, coexisting, yanno?” Hayden had told him around a mouthful of sandwich at lunch, and Shane had sighed. He had looked across the lunchroom to see Ilya, once again holding court in a brand new location, and had bitten down his lip.
He had no idea why this was bothering him.
But, it was. A lot.
Shane knew that as soon as Ilya was released from this team, they’d be pitted against each other for the rest of their careers, however soon that may be. NHL careers were inevitable for both of them - with their records, it would be stupid for anyone to not consider or want them.
He didn’t know if he wanted a rival before he was even old enough to drink.
Or, maybe he didn’t care too much about having a rival. Maybe he just didn’t know if he wanted Ilya to avoid him like this forever. Right now, it sucked, and he didn’t see how it could get any better.
Another stipulation of Yuna’s house arrest was that they had to do their homework together. Every. Night.
Shane hated having to work at the kitchen table and not at his perfectly curated desk. He didn’t have his books, or his good stash of pens, or his lamps.
Downstairs, it was the overhead light, the dull drone of the TV, and the scratching of someone else’s pencils.
He kept his headphones in, and so did Ilya.
One night, though, Shane had left them at the rink, and after thoroughly searching his room, he couldn’t find his spare pair.
Shane sat at the kitchen table with gritted teeth about an hour later, eyes unable to focus on the stupid math problems in front of him. He had begun to dig his pencil into the pages of his notebook a little harder, when he locked in on the lack of pencil noise from across the table. Against his will, his eyes lifted, and he saw Ilya watching him with an unreadable expression, headphones dangling by their wires around his neck.
“What?” Shane asked, voice sharp, and Ilya shrugged.
“I just figured you might want help.”
Shane snorted. “Of course. You figured wrong.”
Ilya shrugged again, turning back to his own homework in silence.
Shane scowled down at his paper. The numbers and letters were floating off of the page, now, and he groaned, letting his forehead drop against the table. He stayed there for a few moments, breathing deeply.
He felt his notebook slide out from under his head, and he let his head clunk back to the table.
“I’m just gonna drop out and focus on hockey forever. I don’t need school. I sure as fuck don’t need math.” Shane mumbled, speaking to no one, but Ilya chuckled in response. Shane rolled his head around to look at Ilya, who was studying Shane’s equations with his lip sucked in between his teeth.
“The good news is that you’ve got the right answers, but the bad news is that I have no fucking idea how you did it.”
Shane scoffed. “And how the hell would you know, baby Einstein?”
A quirked eyebrow from Ilya proved that Shane’s dumb reference did not fall onto knowledgeable ears, and he pressed his lips closed.
“I’m pretty good at math. Plus, we’re in the same class, and I did this homework last night.” Ilya smirked, and leaned down to dig around in his backpack to pull out his own notebook. Shane straightened up, and watched Ilya flip through the pages before finding what he was looking for.
He stayed very still as Ilya scooted his chair closer, tossing their two notebooks in between them to compare.
“You’re not simplifying correctly, I think.”
Ilya was close enough for Shane to smell him. He smelled like spices and pine, and laundry detergent.
“See, here you’re missing like, two expressions in this problem. I don’t even know how you managed to get the right answer. You should be getting extra points for that shit, it’s impressive.”
Ilya’s arm brushed Shane’s, then his foot bumped into Shane's ankle. Shane’s chest was tight.
“You better pay attention, I’m only going to show you this once.”
After minutes of back and forth bickering, Shane finally let Ilya guide him through the problems.
Ilya did not only show Shane once. He helped him with every single one, and then they completed their grammar work in the same back and forth way, this time with Shane taking the lead to help.
Shane would never admit to Ilya (or himself) that Ilya’s easy way of explaining fell on his ears more sensibly than any teachers’ ever had.
Something was different between them, after that.
They weren't friends, not by a long shot. But they could speak to each other at the rink, or exist around each other without the air bristling. One could celebrate the other after a good shot, and the other would respond in kind.
It was better than enemies, Shane decided.
⚻