Chapter Text
Ilya is honestly pretty proud of himself for going straight to bed on his first night in Ottawa. He rented the first apartment recommended to him mostly out of a sheer lack of will to put any more effort into the move than strictly necessary. Even more, he just doesn’t feel steady enough here yet. If the team who drafted him and who he’s given his blood, sweat, and tears to for the past eight years can throw him out like he’s nothing—who’s to say Ottawa will keep him around and not change their mind? It doesn’t feel worth it to invest his time building a new home for himself yet—Ilya’s honestly a little worried that it never will. It’s possible that this Boston shaped chip on his shoulder will permanently weld itself to his bones and keep him from ever wanting to open his heart to another city.
Of course, heading straight to bed doesn’t mean that Ilya’s asleep. After close to two hours of staring at his new, unfamiliar ceiling, Ilya rolls out of bed and pads into the living room. He stands there for a while with a glass of water in his hand, eyes glazed over as they watch out the window to the city that spans around him. He rented the place furnished, which now, almost feels worse than renting something empty and having nothing at all around him. He feels surrounded by someone else’s belongings and that only serves to leave Ilya feeling even further out of place.
Ilya doesn’t turn on the TV, he doesn't scroll his phone, he doesn’t even pour himself a drink of the single bottle of vodka packed somewhere amongst his pile of belongings still sitting in the corner of the apartment. Instead, he sits on the arm of the black leather couch and watches time pass out the window as he listens to the unfamiliar sounds of the building around him. The distant rush of plumbing in the walls reminds Ilya that he isn’t truly alone here, something that uncharacteristically offers him a modicum of comfort. The additional isolation of moving straight into a detached home of his own feels like it would have been enough to push Ilya over the ledge.
There were certainly more than a few thoughts about going out and finding a bar to drown his sorrows in when Ilya had first arrived tonight. Finding someone to drown his sorrows in was also briefly enticing—especially the prospect of falling asleep somewhere other than this space that’s supposed to feel like his but doesn’t. Going home with someone typically offers Ilya a comparable kind of rush to that of driving considerably too fast to be safe. Anonymous hands, a stranger's bed, something loud and physical that feels good and gets him out of his head. But again, Ilya doesn’t know the safe spots yet.
In Boston, he kept a carefully curated list of places within a twenty mile radius to his home where going out and finding someone to sleep with never led to any more than minimal chaos in the headlines. Here, he doesn’t know which neighbourhoods to avoid, which bartenders can be trusted to mostly keep their mouths shut about anything that could actually get Ilya in more trouble than a measly headline about being a womanizer.
So he stays home, sits in the relative silence of his own company, and eventually curls up on the couch—too exhausted to make the journey back down the hall to his his new room.
***
Ilya wakes up the next morning still curled up on the couch. He immediately feels the effects in the form of a dull ache in his back and a kink in his neck. It feels a bit offensive that the ripe age of twenty-six is apparently too old to fall asleep on a couch without needing a professional massage. Ilya groans as he stretches out and stares up at the same unfamiliar ceiling that sat above him the night before.
Apparently he really does live here now.
The first day passes unceremoniously. Ilya spends most of it sunk into the far corner of his couch; he orders take out to eat and continues to ignore everything happening on his phone with the exception of the Centaurs staff. They’ve been steadily sending him over details for his first day on Monday—where to go, who to meet, what to do, a list of all the interviews he’s expected to do. All the same things he’d done eight years ago in Boston but with far less fan affair to it.
Someone named Brian sends Ilya an email saying that he’s welcome at the arena anytime to check it out, but that there won’t be anyone around for him to meet until tomorrow.
That’s how Ilya finds himself being let in a back entrance at Canadian Tire Centre at seven o-clock on Sunday night. He’d much prefer to look around and get acquainted with the space on his own without two dozen new teammates, large groups of staff, and hoards of nosy press watching his every move and fighting to shove the first microphone down his throat.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Rozanov.” A young, wide-eyed security officer smiles enthusiastically as he lets Ilya inside. “There aren’t many people around tonight so feel free to look around as long as you’d like. You can head back out this door here when you leave and it’ll just lock behind you.”
“Thank you,” Ilya smiles politely. He has to consciously remind himself that this person has absolutely nothing to do with his trade and in no way, shape, or form needs to be greeted with an attitude for simply opening a door.
“Anytime! I’m so excited you’re playing here now, I couldn’t believe it when-fuck, I mean- shit, sorry. Not important, ah have a good night!” They turn around quickly, clearly mortified by their animated outburst, and begin to race away.
Ilya feels something pull tightly in his chest. “What is your name?” He calls out.
The young man stops on a dime and turns back with eyes wider than when they’d first set on Ilya.
“I’m Noah,” he practically whispers in awe.
“Good to meet you, Noah. Thank you for the support. Is there a number to call if I cannot find my way back to this door?” Ilya asks the question knowing that he’ll call regardless just to put a smile on this young man’s face again. Even though he is miserable, that doesn’t mean he needs to spread the disease around to nice, genuine people.
“Yeah! Yes, absolutely.” Noah digs in the pocket of his royal blue polo shirt and pulls out a card, offering it to Ilya. “I’m here overnight so call anytime if you need help!”
“Will do. Thanks again.” Ilya offers a kind smile as he sets off on his self-directed tour.
He can feel Noah’s star-glazed eyes following him as he walks down the corridor and wishes that he had more energy to offer. Right now though, every interaction feels like it’s costing him something that he can’t afford to spend—not with a full day of overbearing interaction looming over his shoulder.
Ilya finds some peace in the low, hollow hum that sounds the same in any large arena when it’s near empty. It’s a negligible offering of comfort that, at the very least, reminds Ilya that he knows what he’s doing in a place like this.
Ilya follows the signs toward the rink, paying little mind to anything else around him. It’s really the only part of the building that he’d wanted to see when he drove over here. Everywhere outside of the rink feels insignificant until he knows whether or not he’ll actually be staying in Ottawa for any significant amount of time.
When he pushes through the final set of double doors and steps into the lower bowl of the arena, Ilya stops. The lighting around the stands is muted, with only the ice itself being fully lit right now. With no music, no announcers, no crowds, the stillness around Ilya is deafening. The only real sound he hears is his own feet beneath him as he descends the steps to approach the rink. He knows that he could’ve found the locker rooms and actually gone down to the team benches, but that felt a little too personal right now. It’s easier to pretend that being here is nothing out of the ordinary if he keeps himself on the outskirts of the plexiglass oval that surrounds the rink.
Just as he reaches ice-level, Ilya hears the familiar click of a bench door opening and closing, followed by the smooth scratch of perfectly sharpened skates gliding out onto the ice. His eyes flick to the home side and land on a man pushing out onto the ice alone. He isn’t wearing much equipment, with the exception of skates and a helmet—Ilya doesn’t recognize him as a player.
Ilya takes a seat in the first row and leans forward, resting his forearms against the ledge of the glass and dropping his chin against them to watch the man skate. He’s got a stick and a single puck with him as he moves fleetly around the rink. There is an obvious grace to his movements that lets Ilya know he has many years of practice under his belt. Ilya wonders briefly if he’s been called up from Ottawa’s AHL team and that’s why he’s never seen him. Whoever he is, he clearly hasn’t noticed Ilya watching and is in a world of his own as he strides forward and whips a shot from the blue line into the back of the net.
It’s an impressive shot by any standards—even for someone like Ilya who’s powerful slap shots and forceful backhands have been making waves since his junior hockey days back in Russia.
Ilya lets out a low whistle involuntarily, immediately regretting it when the man’s head shoots up toward the sound, very obviously startled.
“Hello?” The man asks, eyes squinting when they land on Ilya behind the boards.
“You do not play for Centaurs,” Ilya states plainly, ignoring the questioning greeting. “I would recognize you. And that shot.”
The man’s eyes widen with the lift of his brows as he skates slowly in Ilya’s direction. Recognition flickers across his face in a quiet way. He doesn’t say anything when the realization fully sets in, which Ilya appreciates more than he could have anticipated.
“No. I uh, my name’s Shane. I’m the team's primary equipment manager.”
Up close, with only the slightly streaked plexiglass between them, Ilya is momentarily caught off guard by Shane’s appearance. He’s beautiful, honestly, with jet-black hair and uneven rows of freckles littering his cheeks and nose. Shane’s mouth is soft, expressive, and presently caught between a balance of nervousness and curiosity. Ilya briefly finds himself wishing he could reach out and trace those freckles with his thumb.
“This is a real job?” Ilya asks instead, clearing his throat and his mind as subtly as possible.
“Is it a real—yes, it’s a real job,” Shane huffs. “Who do you think sets up the locker room for you every day and folds your clean socks up for you?”
“Equipment fairy, obviously.” Ilya shrugs. He offers a teasing tilt of his head to feign his innocence.
Shane briefly looks at Ilya like he has two heads—like for a split moment he isn’t quite sure if the other man is joking or not.
Ilya doesn’t give him a chance to respond before speaking up again. “So, Shane—Mr. Equipment Manager—you will be in charge of washing my dirty socks after games now?”
“No,” Shane grumbles. “That was my job when I interned. I only touch your socks once they’re clean now. I sharpen skates, set everyone’s sticks and jerseys up in the locker room, do jersey printing.”
Ilya finds the little wrinkle between Shane’s eyes that’s highlighting his frustration to be unfairly adorable. In a matter of seconds he’s gone from being idly miserable to discovering teasing Shane to be his new favourite hobby.
“Ah, yes. All the fun stuff.”
“It is fun. For me.” Shane tacks on the for me with a whisper that almost has Ilya feeling bad for teasing him—almost.
“Mm,” Ilya hums. His eyes trace the freckles smattered across Shane’s nose and cheeks once more, he feels a little desperate to capture a clear picture of them with his mind. “So, Mr. Equipment Manager—Mr. handler of clean socks and printer of jerseys—you are a good skater. Fast.”
Something a little uncomfortable flickers over Shane’s face as he receives the compliment. “Oh, yeah, I used to play.”
“Why did you stop?” Ilya’s brows knit together. “You’re faster than most of my new teammates.”
“That’s not true,” Shane rolls his eyes but it does nothing to convince Ilya he’s wrong.
“And it was just, uh…” Shane stumbles, scratching at the back of his neck almost like he doesn’t know how safe his information is with Ilya. “just some medical stuff.”
Ilya’s very obviously being offered a vague answer for a reason, so he doesn’t push for more information no matter how badly he finds himself wanting to know more about Shane.
“Mm. Is too bad.” Ilya's eyes follow the worry lines on Shane’s forehead—he looks fearful that Ilya will be able to read his mind and be able to translate what medical stuff actually means despite having nothing concrete or even abstract to go on yet.
“You use the rink often?” Ilya asks, redirecting the conversation for Shane’s sake.
A soft smile returns, pulling up the corners of Shane’s mouth as a wave of relief appears to settle over him. “Most nights, I usually come here later in the night, unless there is nothing going on like today. It’s a good perk of the job. I can get out of your way though, if you came to skate?”
Ilya chuckles at the offer considering he’s dressed in normal clothes and isn’t even able to access the ice from where he stands.
“It’s a big rink, room for two, no?” He teases instead, enjoying the subtle pink that’s beginning to dust over Shane’s cheeks and ears.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s just not really my place. It’s your ice more than mine.” Shane replies diplomatically. Ilya has to stop himself from frowning at the consideration that Shane—this man he’s only just met—feels like he isn’t allowed to take up space here or that he is inconveniencing Ilya in some kind of way. Like he truly believes that he’s existing in a space where he’s not welcome.
“Ah, you are very kind. A very polite Canadian boy,” Ilya winks. “I am not here to skate, though. Just wanted to see everything before being mauled by press tomorrow.”
Shane nods slowly in understanding. “Oh, yeah. They’ve kind of been all over you, hey?” Shane asks hesitantly, like he isn’t sure whether Ilya will be open to saying any more on the topic.
“Yes,” Ilya deadpans.
“Is it like… Well, are the-”
“Which of the rumours are true?” Ilya cuts Shane off, knowing exactly where the question had been headed. “None, yet.”
“Can I ask?” Shane worries his bottom lip between his teeth, Ilya can practically feel the anxiety radiating from him through the glass. It’s obvious that Shane’s mind is screaming at him to let it go but that his curiosity has managed to slip through the gates.
“You can, I will not answer truthfully, though.”
“Right, of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even brought it up, that’s none of my business at all.” Shane’s face scrunches up as he silently admonishes himself for ignoring the logic of his mind. Ilya finds the expression painfully endearing.
“Relax, Shane. I can not answer truthfully because my agent will break my kneecaps with bare hands, and that’s the least painful response I’ll get. Has to stay private, at least for now.” And probably forever. Ilya adds to only himself.
“Oh,” Most of the panic drains from Shane’s face as he lets out a breath. “Right, okay. That makes sense. Well, I know at the very least that it sounds like Ottawa wasn’t a choice for you, so I’m sorry that you were uprooted, regardless of the reason.”
Ilya studies Shane for a moment as he considers his answer. The consideration that Shane—who Ilya really does not know at all—is someone he feels like would keep his secrets safe, settles uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach. “You sound sure that I’m not the bad guy. Haven’t you heard? I am number one league asshole.”
Shane laughs, tucking his head down like he’s embarrassed by the sound he emits. “I may have heard that once or twice. I figure I’m at least safe since I’m not a player?”
Ilya clicks his tongue thoughtfully. “Ah, no. I am biggest asshole to pretty boys who fold my socks.” Ilya winks.
Shane’s eyes nearly budge from their sockets. For a brief moment, Ilya believes he might just bolt, at least until a deeper shade of pink, bordering on the line of red, starts filling in the gaps between the freckles etched across his face.
“Oh, that’s… I,” Shane’s eyes are glued to the ice, darting left and right between his meticulously laced skates.
“You act like you’re not used to being called pretty.”
“I’m not,” Shane rushes out. “I’m definitely not.”
“This is a crime.” Ilya shakes his head, both in astonishment and also in a feeble attempt to change course.
He’s not going to take this any further. Honestly, he’s already offering up career-ending levels of recklessness right now with those comments. The only reason he expects to get away with it is because he knows anyone with a job like Shane’s has to sign an NDA regarding private player information. It’s nowhere near a good enough reason to flirt so blatantly with a man when he isn’t out publicly, but it’s enough for Ilya when he’s still feeling like not a whole lot matters right now. Apparently that includes risking his career for the second time in a matter of days.
“You know,” Ilya shrugs. “I think I will skate after all. I will need to see if my gear has been delivered though.”
“Oh, okay yeah I’ll just head out so you can do your thing.” Shane blinks quickly a few times, appearing to still be processing Ilya’s previous few comments.
Shane pushes off to skate away but Ilya knocks against the glass with a questioning look on his face. “Stay.” Ilya demands softly. “Like I said, rink is big enough for the two of us.”
“O-okay,” Shane replies quietly. “And your stuff is here by the way, I set it all up in the locker room this afternoon so it’d be ready for practice tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Ilya smiles. “Perfect. Don’t run away, I’ll be back soon.” Ilya winks, turning and jogging back up the stairs towards the same doors he’d entered through and leaving Shane silent and stunned behind him.