Archive of Our Own

I’m pretty sure this week is gonna decide my whole life.

I’m thirteen now, finally old enough for Tec-Tac International Hockey summer camp. Scouts will be watching, so it’s a great chance to get noticed. At home, I play well with my own team and coaches who know me. But here, I just feel like another kid with a hockey bag and parents who say I can do anything.

It’s a big deal that I’m at Tec-Tac. My coach talks about it like it’s absolutely necessary if I wanna take hockey seriously. And I do. I can’t imagine there being anything else I wanna do when I’m older.

Dad drops me off in front of Carleton Place Arena. He waves but doesn’t leave right away. I can feel him watching as I walk to the entrance. Honestly, it feels like my parents are always keeping an eye on me. Even now, they’re staying nearby in town, even though camp is less than an hour from Ottawa. I’m used to it. They like to be close, come to every game, and know all my friends’ parents. They booked a bed and breakfast and planned to spend the week doing local walks or maybe crosswords or something.

Dad and I had checked in at the camp accommodation, which was within walking distance to the rink. There are buses scheduled to bring us to and from the rink, though, because of all our gear we have to lug around. I’m early to the rink, but that suits me fine. It means I can figure out where everything is without heaps of other kids around.

Most rinks are set up the same way, so finding the dressing room is easy. I find my stall, put my stuff away, and check the names of the kids next to me. Pike is on my left, Rozanov on my right.

I have almost an hour to spare, so I go look for the gym. I don’t want to work out now, but I know I’ll want to later. The info pack said it’s in a separate building, and I’ve read it so many times I know it by heart. I head out the main entrance and around the side, where I think it is.
Some employees are still setting up, but they ignore me, which I don’t mind.

As I walk around the corner, I spot another kid leaning against the rink wall, half in shadow. He’s wearing an Adidas tracksuit, a fitted black t-shirt, and a gold chain. His baseball cap hides most of his hair, but I see sandy curls near his ear. He’s playing with an iPod mini, spinning the wheel like he’s bored of all the songs. That’s wild, since those things can hold about a thousand songs.

I notice his hands, which is strange because I don’t usually pay attention to that. His hands look skilled, like they’ve taped a lot of sticks and caught plenty of hard passes without flinching.

He doesn’t see me until I’m close. He looks up with a bored face and checks me out like it’s nothing new. When our eyes meet, I feel a quick jolt, like missing a step in the dark. I tell myself it’s just nerves. I’m not great at meeting new people.

He keeps watching me with mild curiosity, like he’s waiting for me to do something interesting. I can feel myself blushing, which means my freckles will be standing out. I become hyperaware of what I’m wearing—a Don Mills Flyers hoodie and cargo shorts. They seemed fine this morning, but now, standing in front of this guy who looks like he could be a movie star, I feel lame. It looks like my parents picked my outfit, which is almost true since Mom buys most of my clothes. I shift my weight and glance back at him.

His face is all sharp angles, with high cheekbones and a serious mouth. He looks older than thirteen and is taller than me, though I’m pretty short. His lips look soft, and he has this pout I’ve only seen celebrities do in photos. I bet he’s kissed a lot of girls. The thought pops into my head, and I feel even more embarrassed, wondering why I’m thinking about that.

“Hey, um… is this the gym?” I ask, pointing at the door and instantly regretting it since “GYM” is written across it in huge letters.

He slowly takes out one earbud and looks from me to the door, then back at me.

“Yes. Gym.”

Sometimes I feel like my face could actually catch on fire. I try to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. I just… yeah. I saw the sign.”ing uselessly. “Shane.” I pull one hand back and hold it out in front of me, like Dad taught me. “Nice to meet you.”

He glances at my hand and a quick smile appears before he shakes it.

His handshake is firm and his hand feels warm.

“Ilya,” he says. “Hello, Shane.” He says my name carefully. Like he’s making sure it’s right. His accent is thick. Russian, maybe. “Is nice to meet you.”

I swallow and force myself through the awkwardness, asking another question.

“So, uh… do you know what group you’re in?”

He frowns slightly. “Group?”

“Yeah. Like… teams. They did colours."

He watches my mouth as I talk. I pull out my folded paperwork, and Ilya does too, but his is crumpled like it’s been stuffed in his pocket a bunch of times. He taps a line.

“I am blue.”

“Oh.” I feel relieved for no real reason. “Me too.”

He nods once and leans back against the wall, sliding his earbud halfway in.

The conversation should probably be over; I know this, but—

“What position?” I ask.

“Centre.”

“Same,” I say, trying not to sound defensive. “I play center too.”

He studies me properly then. Not just a glance. A full look, from my shoulders down to my shoes and back up again, like he’s measuring faceoff percentage and ice time without asking.

“First line?” he asks.

I shrug, trying to seem casual. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

It shouldn’t feel like a challenge. But it does.

“Cool,” he says. There’s a hint of challenge in his eyes now. My heart beats strangely, like I’ve just been picked for something I didn’t know I was trying out for.

Before I can ask another question, buses pull up out front. Brakes hiss and engines rumble, and suddenly it’s loud—shouting, laughing, and hockey bags thudding on the pavement.

“I should go,” I say, feeling awkward. “Nice to meet you, Ilya.”

He smirks.

“See you on the ice, Shane.”

He says my name as he owns it.

Ilya walks with me as I head back to the entrance. He puts away his iPod, and I can’t help but notice how close he is as we turn the corner.

Inside the foyer, it’s chaos. There are people everywhere, staff handing out lanyards and wristbands, and I head over to grab mine. I’m fiddling with my lanyard, trying to get it to sit correctly, and scanning faces at the same time, trying to work out who’s good before I’ve even seen anyone skate. I also watch Ilya. He moves through the crowd without bumping into anyone. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look unsure. He doesn’t seem bothered by the groups of kids who know each other. He just exists in the middle of it all like he’s supposed to be here.

A coach calls us into our colour groups. The blue group forms a messy line, with most kids checking each other out and acting like they’re not nervous. Ilya stands off to the side, watching everyone with a sharp look.

The coach gives the usual speech. Work hard. Be respectful. You’re here for a reason. I nod at the right times, and Ilya listens intently.

The coach ends his talk with a sharp clap of his hands.

“Alright,” he says, looking around at all of us like he’s daring someone to move slowly. “You’ve got ten minutes. Get changed and get on the ice.”

The room bursts into noise and movement. For a second, I lose sight of him, and my chest tightens. Which is silly—it’s just a crowd.

I spot him again as he’s about to go into the hallway to the dressing rooms. He pauses, looks around, and finds me. I give a half-wave before I can stop myself. He doesn’t wave back, but he smirks and holds my gaze for a few seconds before turning to follow the others.

I stand there, feeling my face get hot. Then I follow him.