Chapter Text
Shane Hollander touched a delicate finger to his bottom lip, a smudge of blood greeting him when he pulled his hand back. He internally cursed. His mom was going to kill him for getting another split lip. To him— a thirteen-year-old boy who’s been playing hockey since he could walk— it was nothing. But to his mom, it meant something more. A representation that her son was vulnerable on the ice. Shane was surprised she hadn’t made him quit yet, but this may just be the last straw, especially paired with the new black eye that he was sporting.
He took his time walking home, taking all of the backroads and dragging his feet as much as the icy sidewalk would let him. It was usually bitterly cold in Michigan, but it was especially bad this January. He couldn’t remember the last time the ground wasn’t covered in snow. He was getting sick of it. Between being on the ice during hockey practice and walking home through the snow, he felt like he was permanently frozen to the core.
And to make matters even worse, tomorrow would be his first day back from winter break, and there was nothing he hated more than school. The loud cafeteria, the crowded bathrooms, and, worst of all, the disgusting gym that he was forced to spend recess in, because of course it was too cold to actually go outside during their lunch break.
He really hoped his mom would give him a break today. He was already humdrum enough without her giving him a hard time.
Eventually, his house appeared in sight at the end of the street like a looming omen, and he knew he couldn’t stall any longer. He could already hear his mother’s frets in his head, trying to talk him out of such a violent sport. He hoped his father would take his side like he used to. Shane knew his father wanted him to play hockey, but lately it’s grown difficult for his father to take Shane’s side against his mother. She would get angry and not talk to him for hours sometimes. During those times, Shane really did consider quitting, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t give up on something he loved so much. It would be going against everything his parents taught him— to never give up and to push through even when things get difficult.
Shane shouldered his hockey bag through his front door, tossing it down in the foyer with a huff of exertion. His body felt bone tired, but in a way that he kind of enjoyed. He felt accomplished. It really was a good practice today, even if he took an unfortunate hit to the face. His coach said that if he keeps up the good work, he’ll be looking at making the varsity hockey team his first year of high school, which was pretty unheard of. He’d be the only freshman on the team, which would make him a shoo in for scholarships when it came time for him to be applying to colleges.
He may only be thirteen, but he always had taken after his mother when it came to planning ahead. It’s never too early to start planning for the future, she always said, and they wouldn’t be able to afford his college without a scholarship, so Shane knew his future depended on how he played right now.
Shane walked through the entry way into the den. He heard some muffled voices coming from the kitchen. One was his mother’s, and one was unfamiliar— a younger voice.
“Mom?” Shane called, not wanting to barge into the kitchen in case his mom was in the middle of a lesson.
His mother, Yuna, was a literature teacher at the high school, but on the side taught English to kids who immigrated here and never had the chance to learn. She spoke four different languages— English, Spanish, Russian, and Japanese, to be exact— so, really, it would be a waste for her not to. She was the smartest person Shane knew.
“In here, hon!” she called back. “Come say hi!”
Shane pushed through the parlor doors into the kitchen and immediately spotted his mother at the dining table with a kid about Shane’s age.
It was a boy, with curly blonde hair and tanned skin. He greeted Shane with a smile, but all Shane could take notice of was the nasty purple bruise covering the boy’s left eye.
Shane realized he was staring and snapped himself out of his shock, going to introduce himself. He extended his hand for the boy to shake.
“Hey! I’m Shane.”
“Ilya,” the boy, Ilya, responded with a wide smile, dimples indenting his cheeks. He had a thick accent, which Shane thought to be Russian, but he wasn’t completely sure. He gestured to Shane’s eye and, slowly, as if he had to think about each syllable, said, “We match.” He gestured at his own swollen eye.
Shane laughed. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
“Shane!” his mother gasped, apparently just taking notice of Shane’s new injury. “Did this happen today? I thought I told you to be more careful! Were you wearing your face guard?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Shane assured her. “Please don’t worry.”
He diverted his attention back to their guest, hoping it would distract his mother from her fretting.
“Where do you go to school?”
Ilya took a minute to process this question, brow furrowing in concentration and maybe a little bit of frustration, Shane thought.
He turned to Shane’s mother, and asked, “Школа?”
“Yes,” Yuna affirmed. “School.”
“Ah,” Ilya nodded, seemingly filing the word away in his head. “Tomorrow,” he told Shane.
Shane turned to his mother to fill in the gaps Ilya left in his answer.
“He starts school tomorrow,” Yuna clarified. “He’ll be in your class.”
“Oh, cool,” Shane smiled at Ilya. “I’ll save you a seat then.”
Yuna translated what Shane said to Ilya and the boy beamed at Shane. He seemed like a nice kid. Shane wondered how he got that nasty black eye, but he wasn’t going to ask, even if Ilya had spoken enough English to tell him.
—————
Later that evening, Shane entertained himself by strumming some chords on his dad’s old acoustic guitar. He couldn’t play very well yet, but he tried to learn different tunes every now and then when he had some spare time.
It bothered him that he hadn’t mastered the instrument yet. He got so frustrated with trying to be the best at everything he did, he often neglected the actual enjoyment of a hobby.
He was so caught up on trying to place his fingers on the right chords, he didn’t even notice Ilya pause on his way to the door to watch him.
Finally, Ilya spoke, startling Shane.
“Ты играешь?” He seemed to realize Shane wouldn’t understand the question, so he tried to rephrase in English. “Play?” he asked, pointing at the guitar.
Shane chuckled softly and lifted his hand, his thumb and pointer finger held just barely apart— the universal sign for ‘a little bit.’
“I’m learning,” he said, and Ilya seemed to understand, then he gestured to the guitar, as if asking if he could see it.
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Shane obliged and handed the guitar over to the Russian boy, who took it gently in his hands and examined it like it was a work of art. He positioned it against his chest and began to strum easily, his fingers working in tandem with the guitar strings like they were attached to his body.
Shane blinked in surprise when he recognized the song. It was some old nineties song his mom liked. He was shocked Ilya could play so well, but then he supposed it made sense. Music was the universal language. Even if he couldn’t communicate through words, music was one thing they both understood.
“You’re really talented,” Shane said, though he had no clue if Ilya would understand or not. He would like to think he did, from the way a light blush dusted his cheeks, but he supposed he would never really know for sure.
“Увидимся завтра в школе,” Ilya said with a bashful smile. “School tomorrow.”
Shane returned the smile and nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
Ilya showed himself out, and Yuna stepped out from the kitchen, where she had apparently been eavesdropping the entire time.
“Thank you for being kind to him,” she told her son. “He doesn’t have any friends here yet.”
Shane shrugged. “It’s no big deal. He seems cool.”
Yuna hummed as she sat on the couch and motioned for Shane to join her. He complied, setting the guitar back on its mount and settling into the spot next to his mom.
“He’s a sweet boy. He just moved here with his father and brother from Russia. His mom died about two months ago.”
“Oh,” Shane frowned. “That sucks.”
“It does,” Yuna agreed. “I hope you can be friends with him. It would be good for him to have someone to count on.”
“Yeah, of course,” Shane assured her. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”
“Good,” Yuna smiled and wrapped her arm around Shane’s shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. “You’re a good kid, Shane. I’m proud of you. Even if you insist on playing that terrible, violent sport.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Shane couldn't help the small grin spreading on his lips. “And I promise, I’ll be more careful when I’m playing.”
“I doubt it,” Yuna sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite kid.”
Shane didn’t feel like it was necessary to point out that he was her only kid, so he just leaned into her side hug and said, “I love you, Mom.” Maybe it had something to do with a sad story about a mom not around anymore, but Shane suddenly felt more appreciative for his mom than ever.
“I love you, kiddo.”