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Ilya POV
Ilya Rozanov hated hotels.
Not because they were uncomfortable. They were usually very comfortable. Too comfortable, even. The beds were soft, the hallways were quiet, and everyone expected young hockey prospects to stay in their rooms and get proper rest before games.
The problem was that Ilya Rozanov was eighteen years old and physically incapable of sitting still.
So at eleven-thirty at night, while most of Team Russia was asleep, he was wandering around the hotel lobby wearing sweatpants, a hoodie, and an expression that suggested he was actively searching for trouble.
The tournament organizers had decorated the hotel with giant banners featuring all the participating countries.
Canada. Sweden. Finland. Russia.
The whole thing looked ridiculous.
As if hanging a giant flag in a hotel lobby was somehow going to improve international relations.
Ilya shoved his hands into his pockets and headed toward the vending machines.
Not because he was hungry. Just because there was nowhere else to go.
The vending machines sat in a deserted corner near the conference rooms.
And standing in front of them was a Canadian.
A very specific Canadian.
Shane Hollander.
Ilya recognized him immediately.
Everyone knew Shane Hollander.
The polite Canadian golden boy.
The future superstar.
The kid scouts wouldn't stop talking about.
Shane stood perfectly straight in front of the machine.
Very serious. Very focused.
Like he was performing brain surgery.
Ilya slowed down.
The machine made a loud mechanical noise. Nothing happened.
Shane stared at it. The machine stared back.
Then Shane inserted another dollar.
Ilya stopped walking.
The machine swallowed it. Nothing happened.
A pause. Another pause. Then Shane sighed.
Not dramatically, just the tiniest sigh.
Like a disappointed librarian.
Ilya immediately became invested.
This is best thing I have seen all week.
Shane leaned closer. Pressed a button. Waited.
Nothing.
The machine remained unmoved.
Ilya folded his arms.
The Canadian looked genuinely offended.
Not angry. Offended.
As though the machine had violated a social contract.
"Excuse me." Shane informed the machine politely.
Ilya almost choked.
The machine did not respond.
Shane tried again.
"Excuse me."
Still nothing.
Ilya was now fully committed to observing this situation.
Canada produces very strange people.
Shane looked around.
Probably checking whether anyone had witnessed his humiliation.
Unfortunately for him, Ilya had.
Their eyes met. For one long second neither spoke.
Shane visibly recognized him.
"Oh." Shane said.
"Oh." Ilya replied.
Silence.
Shane looked away first. Then back at the machine.
Then back at Ilya. Then back at the machine.
Ilya could practically hear the internal debate.
Do not ask rival player for help. Do not ask rival player for help.
Then:
"The machine appears to be malfunctioning."
Ilya snorted.
"It appears to be winning, yes."
A faint blush appeared on Shane's cheeks.
Interesting. Very interesting.
"I was trying to buy ginger ale."
"Ginger ale."
"Yes."
Ilya stared.
"That is your emergency?"
Shane frowned.
"It isn't an emergency."
"You look like it is emergency."
"It isn't."
"You have put money into machine three times."
"Twice."
"Close enough."
The blush got worse. For some reason this was extremely entertaining.
Shane crossed his arms.
"I can solve this."
"You have already tried diplomacy."
"I wasn't…"
"You literally said excuse me."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I did not."
"You apologized to machine."
Shane looked horrified.
"I did not apologize to the machine."
"You are lying."
For the first time, Ilya saw Shane trying not to smile.
Just a tiny twitch.
The Canadian was cuter than he looked during games.
That thought arrived unexpectedly.
And was immediately shoved aside, because obviously that was ridiculous.
He barely knew the guy.
Also he was Canadian.
Both serious flaws.
Still.
Nice eyes. Warm brown. Kind. Freckles.
Dangerous combination.
Ilya stepped closer.
"Move."
Shane blinked.
"What?"
"Move."
Reluctantly, Shane stepped aside.
Ilya examined the machine.
Truthfully, he had no idea how vending machines worked, but Russian confidence covered many weaknesses. Including complete ignorance.
"Hmm."
"What are you doing?"
"Engineering."
"You are not engineering."
"I am."
"You looked at it for two seconds."
"That is enough."
"No it isn't."
"Trust me."
Shane absolutely did not trust him. That much was obvious.
Which made it funnier.
Ilya drew back his fist. Shane's eyes widened.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"You shouldn't punch…"
THUNK.
The machine rattled violently.
For a terrifying moment, nothing happened.
Then…
A can dropped. Then another. Then another.
Three ginger ales tumbled into the collection tray.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Both boys stared.
Ilya stared. Shane stared.
The machine stared.
Even the machine seemed surprised.
Finally Shane spoke.
"...How?"
Ilya shrugged.
"Russia."
"That's not an explanation."
"Is explanation enough."
Shane crouched down and collected the cans.
One. Two. Three.
Still staring.
"You got three."
"I noticed."
Another pause. Then Shane held out a can.
"For helping."
Ilya looked at it. Then at Shane. Then at the can again.
The gesture was absurdly polite. Of course it was.
The guy apologized to vending machines.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Another awkward silence arrived. A large one.
The kind that settled between two people who wanted to keep talking but couldn't think of a reason.
Shane examined the label. Ilya examined Shane.
Accidentally. Probably. Mostly.
The freckles were impossible not to notice.
Who had freckles in December?
Canadians apparently.
Very annoying. Very distracting.
Finally Shane cleared his throat.
"You're playing very well."
Ilya blinked.
"What?"
"In the tournament."
"Oh."
The compliment sounded genuine.
No ego. No manipulation. No hidden insult.
Just genuine. That was unusual.
"Thank you."
"You scored twice against Sweden."
"You watched?"
Immediately Shane looked embarrassed.
"I watch everybody."
"Sure."
"I do."
"Sure."
"I do."
The blush returned.
Amazing.
Ilya took a sip of ginger ale.
It was terrible. Far too sweet.
How did Canadians drink this?
Yet Shane looked delighted. Like he'd recovered a beloved family heirloom.
"You really like this stuff."
"Yes."
"It tastes strange."
"It doesn't."
"It does."
"It doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
To his surprise, Shane laughed. Actually laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. A real one.
And suddenly Ilya realized something.
The quiet kid wasn't boring. He was just nervous.
There was a difference. A big difference.
And somehow that made him even more interesting.
Unfortunately, before Ilya could investigate this fascinating discovery further, Shane glanced toward the elevators.
"I should probably go."
"Probably."
Neither moved. Then Shane smiled.
Small. Warm. Dangerous.
"Good night, Rozanov."
"Good night, Hollander."
Shane walked away. The elevator doors closed.
And for some inexplicable reason, the lobby felt quieter afterward.
Ilya stared at the remaining ginger ale.
Then at the vending machine.
Then toward the elevators.
Huh.
That was all.
Just:
Huh.
Which was significantly more concerning than it sounded.
Shane POV
Shane Hollander had a system.
His systems were good.
Systems were reliable. Systems made sense.
At eleven twenty-three p.m. he wanted ginger ale.
The vending machine sold ginger ale, therefore he would purchase ginger ale.
Simple. Elegant. Logical.
The machine disagreed.
The first dollar disappeared. Nothing happened.
Shane frowned. That was unusual.
Machines were supposed to follow instructions.
He inserted another dollar. Again, nothing happened.
Now he was offended.
Not angry. Offended.
There was a difference.
He pressed the selection button carefully. Nothing.
Pressed again. Nothing.
The machine remained stubbornly indifferent.
Shane stared. The machine stared back.
This was becoming personal.
"Excuse me." Shane said.
Nothing.
"Excuse me."
Still nothing.
Rude. Extremely rude.
The machine had now stolen two dollars and ignored direct communication.
At that exact moment, Shane became aware of someone watching him.
His stomach immediately dropped.
Please not a teammate.
Please not…
Oh no.
Ilya Rozanov.
Of all people.
The Russian superstar.
The loud one. The confident one.
The guy who looked like he belonged on magazine covers.
The guy who never seemed nervous about anything.
Wonderful.
Shane had been caught arguing with a vending machine by the most intimidating teenager in international hockey.
Fantastic. A career highlight.
He briefly considered fleeing. Instead he stood there.
Because fleeing would somehow be worse.
The silence stretched.
Then Shane heard himself saying:
"The machine appears to be malfunctioning."
Excellent. Very cool. Very normal opening line.
Rozanov looked amused. Dangerously amused.
Like a cat discovering an injured bird.
"It appears to be winning, yes."
Wonderful.
Shane wanted the floor to open. The floor declined.
Then things somehow got worse, because Rozanov started teasing him.
About the ginger ale.
About talking to the machine. About apologizing to the machine.
Which Shane absolutely had not done.
Maybe.
The evidence was unfortunately unclear.
Then Rozanov announced he was going to fix it.
Shane immediately knew this was a terrible idea.
The Russian looked at the machine for approximately three seconds.
Then punched it. Actually punched it.
Like that was a reasonable thing to do.
For one horrifying second Shane expected alarms.
Security. Property damage. International scandal.
Instead three cans fell out.
Three. Three actual cans.
Shane stared. His brain stopped functioning.
The solution had been violence.
The machine had rewarded violence.
What kind of lesson was that?
"How?"
Rozanov shrugged.
"Russia."
That was not an answer. Yet somehow it felt like one.
Shane collected the cans.
His precious ginger ale. His hard-earned victory.
Technically illegal victory.
He offered one to Rozanov, because it seemed rude not to.
And because, despite appearances, the Russian had helped. Sort of.
Then something unexpected happened.
They started talking.
Not much. Just enough.
Hockey. The tournament. The drink.
Little things.
And Shane slowly realized that Rozanov wasn't quite what he'd expected.
He was loud. Yes.
Annoying. Definitely.
But he was also funny.
And somehow easier to talk to than most people. Which made no sense.
People were usually complicated. Conversations were usually difficult.
Yet somehow standing beside a vandalized vending machine talking about soft drinks felt... easy. Comfortable.
Dangerous realization. Very dangerous.
Then Rozanov smiled. Just slightly.
And Shane's stomach performed a strange manoeuvre.
That's unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
Because Shane had absolutely no interest in noticing smiles.
Particularly not Russian smiles. Especially not this Russian smile.
Yet here they were.
Eventually Shane knew he should leave. Because it was late.
Because there was a game tomorrow.
Because lingering beside vending machines with rival hockey players was objectively weird.
But when he finally stepped into the elevator, he found himself smiling.
The doors closed. The lobby disappeared.
And Shane looked down at the extra ginger ale in his hands.
One machine malfunction. One Russian. Three cans.
For reasons he couldn't explain, it felt important.
Years later, when people asked how they met, Shane would usually say:
"We met at the International Prospect Cup."
Which was technically true. But the full truth was much stranger.
The full truth was that a vending machine stole two dollars, a Russian punched it, and somehow that changed everything.