Chapter Text
Ilya had drifted over to the bench, grabbing his water bottle and squirting some into his mouth. It seemed they were about to face a power play, and he really wasn’t happy about it. From the look on Shane’s face, he wasn’t either. He may not wear the C anymore — and he was happier for it, Ilya could tell — but he still had an A, along with Bood. The team looked up to Shane, the way they looked up to Ilya.
Well, most of them.
Grayson Michaels, quickly nicknamed Micky, had been drafted the previous year and now was finally in the NHL. Every hockey kid’s dream. And he was good, Ilya had to admit. But he was a little shit. Worse than Ilya had ever been, he was sure. Because if there was one thing Ilya’s upbringing had given him, shitty as it was, was how to shut the fuck up when the situation called for it.
But not Micky. That kid never knew when to stop running his mouth, and Ilya’s palm had been itching for a few weeks now. But nothing he had said had gotten to the level of getting an official strike against his behaviour from his captain. It did feel like it was inevitable, though.
And as if to prove him right, Micky was currently skating angrily over to the referee after slashing at one of the opposing players. It was obvious, and the ref was about to call it. Ilya wasn’t even going to pretend to argue it. The kid could do with a time out. He’d been playing overly aggressive all game, which wasn’t the Centaurs normal style. They didn’t need it.
He was just putting his bottle back down when he heard it.
“You motherfucking cocksucker! What the fuck was that?”
His head shot up, and he twisted around to see Micky being pushed back by the ref, who looked furious.
Ilya felt much the same.
“Michaels!” he barked as he got to the pair, immediately giving his rookie a glare. He had the good sense to look cowed now Ilya was there. “You wear C now? You get to argue with the refs?”
Micky seemed to sense he was in deep shit and fiddled with his stick.
“No, but—”
“No, you don’t wear it?” Ilya pushed, gliding forwards a little. “Who does?”
Micky swallowed. “You, Cap.”
“Oh good, your brain does work,” he said, eyes narrowing. “And what did you just say to our referee?”
“Um,” Micky said, eyes sliding to said referee, who was now standing with his arms crossed over his chest. “Um, I. Um.”
“You were fine with shouting it across the ice before,” Ilya said, refusing to let up. “Tell me again what you said.”
Colour was rising up from under Micky’s collar, replacing the pallor that had come over him when Ilya skated to his side. If he could be shuffling his feet, he would be. Ilya knew he wasn’t even twenty yet, still a kid. But he wouldn’t be letting any of his guys say shit like that. He never had. And especially not to an official, who was just doing their job. And even more so with so many queer players on their team and in their organisation. That kind of language didn’t stand.
Micky mumbled something under his breath, eyes downcast again. Not good enough.
“No,” Ilya said sternly, tapping his stick against Micky’s skate to get his focus. “You were happy to say it loud and proud before. Tell me what you said. Now.”
The kid’s lashes looked wet, and Ilya could imagine his heart was hammering, being reprimanded in a sold out stadium. He didn’t have much sympathy. If he didn’t want to be in trouble in public, he shouldn’t have misbehaved in public. It was a lesson all players under Ilya’s captaincy learned quickly.
Micky took a fortifying breath and closed his eyes, looking like he was trying to brace himself.
“I called him a cocksucker,” he said, just loud enough for Ilya to hear him.
“That was not all you said,” he replied, refusing to move an inch.
“Cap,” the rookie whined and Ilya just glared back. “Fine, I — I called him a motherfucking cocksucker. Happy?”
“Not exactly,” he said grimly, before turning back to the ref. “Penalty or misconduct?”
Micky sputtered at his side, apparently not considering that his captain might consider suggesting his two minute penalty be upgraded to a ten minute misconduct.
“The slashing was just gonna be a minor,” the ref — Douglas, his name just came back to Ilya — said. “But I ain’t having that language. You gonna take care of it, Rozanov?”
Ilya nodded, grabbing the back of Micky’s jersey as the call was made.
“With me,” he said, beginning to skate towards the penalty box.
“But — But, Cap—”
“I am only interested in one butt of yours right now, and it is not word,” he said, giving the kid a shake.
“What about the strike system?” Micky asked, struggling like a scruffed kitten.
It was well known that Ilya was a fair captain. Some reached for the team paddle for the slightest of infractions. Some never used it at all. Ilya was somewhere in the middle. He didn’t bring it out for petty things, giving most misbehaviour a strike. Three, and the miscreant would be meeting with the Centaurs’ paddle. But some things shot right past the strikes.
“There will be only one kind of strike for you today, and it will be many of them right on your naughty backside.”
Micky made a choked off squeaking sound.
“Coach!” Ilya called, gesturing to Micky and raising an eyebrow in question.
Wiebe didn’t look at all happy with his rookie and gave Ilya a nod and a thumbs up. Good, he was down with the plan.
Shane had entered the ice when it was clear Ilya was heading off with Micky to deal with the problem, a familiar object in his hand. He was followed by Dykstra to take over from Micky, shooting the kid a disgusted look as he went.
“Thank you, lyubimy,” Ilya said, hooking his gloved hand under the arm holding their wayward rookie to pull the bulky thing off and then holding out his hand. Shane passed the paddle over while also giving Micky an extremely unimpressed look. Shane’s disapproval was always felt deep by the team, more so than Ilya’s sometimes.
Micky kept trying to make excuses and apologies as Ilya led him over to the penalty box, pushing him in ahead of him. He didn’t really want to hear any of what the kid had to say, so he ignored the words tumbling out of Micky’s mouth.
“Bare your backside and lay over my knee,” Ilya ordered, sitting down on the bench once the door was shut behind them. He set his own gloves next to him, and spun the paddle in his hand a few times, reacquainting himself with the weight.
Micky went pale, and Ilya watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
“Here?” he asked, voice breaking as he looked around at the plexiglass.
“You think I bring paddle for fun?” Ilya said, giving the rookie another look. One that spoke of his impatience, his annoyance, and his wish to give a firm lesson. “I cannot punish you with all those layers.”
“Cap, I — I —”
“If your next words are anything but to tell me you will get right to it, I don’t care,” Ilya said. “You misbehave out on the ice, you can be punished here too. You have never seen guys being paddled in the penalty box?”
“I mean, I have but—”
“Ah, so it is not a new idea to you, good,” Ilya said, refusing to move an inch on this. “Come here, Grayson. You will not like it if I need to come get you.”
Micky sniffled, and Ilya steeled himself. He didn’t like making their baby players cry. But the kid needed to learn a lesson, and sometimes that was best taught with a sore tail and some embarrassment. Ilya was feeling pretty embarrassed that one of his guys had said something like that, with such venom.
“Stand next to me, and I will help you,” he said, trying to push down some of his annoyance. He didn’t want to be a captain who didn’t help his rookies when they were struggling. Micky might be a pain in the ass, but Ilya knew well that he could grow from that. If his own first captain had left him to flounder…
“Cap,” Micky said again, after taking a few tentative steps forward. “Can’t I just bend over the bench?”
“You want to give them a better view?” Ilya asked, and Micky quickly shook his head. “You are more hidden over my knee. Trust me.”
Micky swiped at his face with a glove, gave a look at the glass until Ilya snapped his fingers and pointed to the spot next to him. Finally, the rookie moved, seeming to realise he wasn’t going to get out of this.
“Can’t we leave my shorts up?” he asked with a definite whine to his voice.
Ilya didn’t even dignify that with an answer.
He took the kid’s stick and set it aside, before tugging off his gloves.
“Do you realise why what you said is an insult?” he asked conversationally, getting the teenager ready with practiced fingers until he could guide him over his knees with a firm hand on his back and another tugging on his wrist.
He was ready to accept the weight when Micky finally lost his balance and landed on his thighs. There wasn’t a lot of space in the box, but there was enough for such tasks. He wouldn’t be the first player to face such a consequence and he wouldn’t be the last.
“Um,” Micky said, his shoulders hunching up near his ears, even if Ilya hadn’t bared him yet. “It’s rude?”
“But why?” Ilya asked, tapping on his back to try and encourage him to think. “Why is cock sucking an insult to a man? You would not use this with a woman the same way, no?”
Micky squirmed for a moment and then stiffened so suddenly that Ilya knew instantly he’d realised.
“I — I didn’t —” he sputtered, trying to push up but being held firmly in place by Ilya’s hand. “I’m not — I don’t have a problem — I mean, Cap—”
“You are not homophobic?” Ilya supplied, and Micky started frantically nodding his head. “Yet you use that word as an insult. It is strange.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t think about it,” Micky admitted, and Ilya felt a small bloom of amusement as his rookie crossed and uncrossed his ankles anxiously. “‘Bout why it’s an insult.”
“You just heard a bad word and decided to repeat it?” Ilya asked, even as he already knew the answer.
“Yes, sir,” Micky said, hanging his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I promise.”
“Things like that will get you in trouble,” Ilya said, finally peeling the kids compression leggings down to bare his pale bottom, feeling Micky stiffen as all of his muscles tensed in anticipation. “You need to think before you repeat things. And you need to remember you do not argue with the officials. They are doing their jobs. If you think something is wrong, you tell me or Hollander or Bood. We will argue for you. Is that clear?”
As he spoke, he’d picked up the paddle from where he’d placed it on the seat next to him.
“Y—yes, Cap,” Micky said, sensing the shift towards the next step of the proceedings.
Ilya wasted no time, just wrapping his arm around his rookie’s waist and snapping the paddle down hard on his ass.
Micky made an embarrassing squeaking nose that was swallowed up by the crowd, lucky for him. He kicked his feet though, and Ilya kept an eye on them. He didn’t need another incident, Bood would never let him live it down. He’d sported those stitches for a week.
He didn’t bother scolding as he lit up Micky’s backside, knowing his voice would either be too quiet to be heard effectively or loud enough to be picked up by the people on the other side of the plexiglass. He wanted the kid embarrassed, he didn’t want to air out all of his faults. He’d been an empty headed, brash teenager. Ilya knew what it was like to be one of those.
He didn’t often feel positively about his language issues when he’d first arrived in America, but when it came to words like the one Micky had wielded, he’d been glad of it. Ilya had broken it down automatically as soon as he first heard it and decided it wasn’t one he wanted to use. It made sense though that Micky hadn’t. Had just heard it and seen the effect and decided to add it to his arsenal, without a single thought to what it actually meant.
Pink was quickly darkening to red across his backside as Ilya continued cracking the paddle down. Micky had grabbed his calf and was squirming, which Ilya allowed. If they had been in the locker room, he would have given the kid a few good licks and then sent him off. But the need to have him over his knee meant he didn’t have the same power in his arm, and unfortunately for the rookie, it meant this was going to take longer than he wanted.
“Cap!” Micky yelled at a sharp swat to his upper thigh, his head flying back. “I’m real sorry!”
Ilya didn’t deign to reply, just lowering one knee as much as he could, making Micky bend more acutely as well, and getting good access to the kid’s sit spots. The howl the attention there got would definitely have been audible by the fans nearby, but that couldn’t be helped. Hopefully they were more focused on the ice.
It was almost therapeutic to deal with one of his players while the game carried on around them. Ilya didn’t enjoy it by any means, but it came with being a captain, and he cared about this team enough to make sure he did this job well. He went from side to side, top to bottom, making sure the areas that would be in contact with the bench got a good amount of attention. There were no classes on this stuff, but Ilya had picked up a few tricks over the years.
Once he had a good, solid red, he paused, tapping the paddle against Micky’s well-punished skin thoughtfully. The kid’s shoulders were shaking lightly, and his fingers were digging into the layers wrapped around Ilya’s leg. The time for his misconduct was almost up.
“Will you say that word again?” he asked, and Micky shook his head.
Ilya gave him a sharp smack with the paddle, making the kid gasp out a choked off sobbing sound.
“Words, Micheals,” he ordered sternly. “Will you use that word again?”
“No, sir!” Micky said, voice wobbly. “Never.”
“Will you argue with the officials?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“What will you do if you disagree with them?”
“T—talk to you,” Micky supplied, and Ilya felt him release a hand so he could wipe at his face. “Or Hollzy, or B—Bood.”
“Good boy,” Ilya said, satisfied that the lesson had been learned.
Setting the paddle aside, he tugged up the kid’s leggings and helped him to his feet.
Micky’s face was almost as red as his ass, and there were a few tear tracks running down his cheeks that he was sure to be embarrassed about once he realised they were there. Ilya turned to let him put himself back together, and grabbed a tissue and an energy drink that were both kept in the penalty box.
“Here,” he said, holding them out, and watching as Micky wiped his face and took a few sips. “You will take that back to the bench. Apologise to Coach for being rude idiot and losing him two players for the last ten minutes. Then you will see what he wants to do with you. Don’t make me do this again.”
The subdued rookie in front of him just nodded sadly, sniffling, and Ilya rolled his eyes before pulling him in for a hug.
“It is one mistake, Misha,” Ilya murmured in his ear, giving him a good squeeze. “Very embarrassing, but you will live. I promise.”
The kid still looked just as flushed when Ilya released him, but not quite as devastated. He would be licking his wounded pride for a while, but hopefully he’d bounce back soon enough. The first time you were pulled aside at a game to have your backside blistered was mortifying, but the Centaurs took care of their own. Ilya was sure Micky would be regaled with tales of each of their own experiences before too long, whether he wanted to hear them or not.
The time was called a moment later, and Ilya nodded for him to get out of the box, pulling on his own gloves and grabbing the paddle. Micky had grabbed his stick and raced out, wincing as he did.
Ilya’s return to the bench was a little more leisurely, although not unhurried. He passed the paddle to the equipment manager and slotted in next to Bood and Shane.
“You sort him out?” Bood asked, pulling his eyes from the game and raising an eyebrow.
Ilya glanced over his shoulder to see a sheepish rookie apologising to a disappointed looking Coach Wiebe.
“Yes,” he said. “He will not say such things in future. He will probably argue with refs again, though.”
“He’ll be lucky if Coach doesn’t scratch him,” Shane muttered, and Ilya rolled his eyes.
“He is not so sore for that,” he teased. He knew Shane sometimes struggled to remember that their team now worked differently than the one he was used to. Micky had gotten his punishment. After the game, it would be forgotten.
Shane huffed and nodded, obviously realising what Ilya was pointing out. The Centaurs didn’t hold grudges when a player got in trouble. They would rib their rookie, but not meanly.
“Did you score that?” Ilya asked as he focused back on the game, nudging Shane’s arm. They had been one down when he took Micky off the ice, and now they were tied.
Shane and Ilya were only on the ice together during a power play normally, since Ilya’s line had already been working so well. Shane was the centre for the second line, which meant Ilya got to sit and watch his husband play beautiful hockey on a regular basis and score fantastic goals when they had a power play. It was wonderful, honestly.
“Shut up,” Shane said, nudging him back. “It was Haasy, actually.”
“Haasy!” Ilya called with delight, getting the younger player’s attention. “You scored?”
Colour started creeping up Luca’s neck as he nodded, a delighted smile spreading across his face.
Ilya flashed him two thumbs up.
“Alright, boys,” Coach Wiebe said, clapping his hands behind them. “Roz, you good to go?”
“Unless you need me to wrangle anymore baby hockey gremlins?” he asked, grinning.
“Get on the ice and score for us, will ya?” Wiebe said, rolling his eyes. There was definitely some fondness behind the gesture, and Ilya felt a warmth in his chest. It only grew when he spotted Micky down the bench, squirming but with the arm of his fellow defenseman around his shoulders. He would be alright.
“Just for you, Coach,” Ilya promised, saluting sloppily and hopping the boards in an easy, practiced movement.
They had a game to win, after all.