“All right kid, get out,” Volkov said, idling the car in front of the Bell Sports Complex. His dark eyes were serious, but kind, as he looked over at Ilya in the passenger seat.
“You are not coming in?” Ilya asked, trying to mask his anxiety.
“Today’s just for the rooks,” Volkov said. “I have one more day to enjoy my summer vacation. Perk of having already made the team.”
Ilya frowned. “I will be on the team, they would not waste first round draft pick on the Lavals.”
“Piece of advice, kid. Check the attitude. Theriault doesn’t like rock stars. He wants team players and ass kissers. You may have been a hot shot in Russia, but now you’re just another prospect. Impress the coaching staff and don’t start any fights.” Switching to English from Russian, Volkov said slowly and with hand gestures, “Now, you go inside.”
Ilya blew a raspberry at him, but reached for the handle and got out of the car. He grabbed his hockey bag from the backseat and slammed the door shut. Volkov peeled out, not bothering to watch him walk into the massive sports complex.
He had been staying with Nikolai Volkov and his family since his arrival in Canada in mid-July, when he wasn’t being pimped out for photo shoots and commercials. When his agent had presented him with a list of companies that wanted his endorsement he’d said yes to everything. He’d been glad for any excuse to leave Russia before the start of the season, his father’s diatribes about his second place draft finish wearing on his patience. The money from the deals would also shut his brother up until the money from his ELC showed up. His signing bonus was already long gone, claimed by his father since Ilya had been 17 when he was drafted.
There wasn’t even enough left to pay the deposit on his own apartment in Montreal, unless he wanted to drive 2 hours to the arena. So, he’d asked the organization for help with a place to live, at least until he started earning and they’d arranged for him to stay with Volkov.
Kolya was a left wing who’d bounced around the league before settling in on the 3rd line of the Metros 5 years before. He was born in Russia and played through the same leagues as Ilya had before being drafted. His wife, Cindy, was Canadian and didn’t fit Ilya’s image of a WAG. She wasn’t flashy or blonde, and she worked part time as a receptionist for a veterinarian clinic when she wasn’t taking their daughter to figure skating practice or competitions.
Their daughter, Anastasia, was Ilya’s favorite part of staying with the family. She was 9 years old, sassy, smart, and highly competitive. She’d been training as a figure skater since she was 5 and was starting to get noticed by elite coaches. Ilya had spent most of his time with the family arguing the merits of hockey over “fancy” skating and bullying her into playing street hockey with him or trying to beat her at Mario Kart.
He settled his bag on his shoulder and surveyed the building that would be his second home for at least the next two weeks. It was still hard to believe that he was in Canada, about to start his career as a Montreal Metro, the #2 draft pick, surrounded by people speaking English and fucking French.
He’d been studying English since he was 16 when it became clear that his dream of getting out of Russia and playing for the NHL might actually happen. He mostly studied by watching bootleg copies of Fast and the Furious movies with the Russian subtitles on, but he was sure it would be fine.
“Going in?” a deep voice said from behind him. Ilya startled, whipping his head around to see a tall, gangly boy standing there. He had the stretched out look of someone who’d recently gone through a growth spurt, skin pulled tight across his cheek bones, Adam’s apple jutting out, too big ears like handles on the sides of his head. His light brown hair was coated in so much gel that it sparkled in the sun. Ilya shuddered to think what the inside of his helmet must feel like at the end of practice.
Ilya stared at him, frozen.
“Hey, you’re Ilya Rozanov,” the boy said, stepping forward with his hand held out. “I’m Tommy Olsen. We played against each other last year in the International Prospect Cup. Well, we beat you last year,” he said with a smirk.
“You were on Team Canada?” Ilya asked, “I didn’t notice you hiding behind Hollander’s skirts.”
The boy, Olsen, frowned. “The whole team contributed to that win.”
“Yes, by giving puck to Hollander,” Ilya said. “Now, you give puck to me and we win.”
“Sure,” he snorted, “If that’s the play.”
“Of course that will be play. I’m best at hockey in Canada.”
“You were the number 2 draft pick. Pretty sure Hollander is the best player from Canada,” Olsen said, raising his eyebrows.
“Ah,” Ilya said, waiving his finger in Olsen’s face, “Hollander is no longer in Canada, therefore, I am best.”
“We’ll see what Coach says about that. But we really should head in if we don’t want to be late,” Olsen said, starting to walk to the building.
Ilya followed him, and then sped up to pass him so he could reach the entrance first. He pulled the heavy glass door open and quickly stepped through, letting it fall closed behind him. Olsen shot out a hand to grab it and shoved Ilya forwards so they both spilled into the entryway.
“Yo, nuggets, save it for the rink,” a new voice yelled and both boys stopped shoving each other to look up in surprise. The man in front of them was dressed in khakis and a Metros jacket, a whistle hanging around his neck. He was obviously older than Ilya, but that meant little. Ilya was one of the youngest prospects, so everyone was older than him. He had no idea if this man was staff or a player. Sveta had told him to look at the team website before his first day, but he hadn’t gotten around to it.
Olsen looked at Ilya and Ilya shrugged.
“Sorry, sir,” Olsen said.
“That’s coach to you,” the man said. “Coach Anderson. Now hurry up, the locker room is this way.” He set off down the hall, not looking back to see if they were following.
“Oh shit,” Olsen whispered to Ilya. “That’s Eric Anderson.”
“Who?” Ilya whispered back.
“Number one draft pick for the Metros in 2000. Played 2001-2002, won rookie of the year, than got in a car accident over the summer and never played again. He disappeared off the face of the earth. I can’t believe he’s back. I had his poster on my wall when I was 8.”
“Big day for you, meeting child crush,” Ilya said, receiving a shove in return.
“Fuck off,” Olsen said, but he was smiling as he sped up and entered the locker room ahead of Ilya.
The room they entered was packed with young men, lining the walls and standing awkwardly with heavy duffle bags hanging from their shoulders. All eyes flicked over to survey the newcomers, most of them flinching wide when they recognized Ilya. He threw his shoulders back and decided to stand in the middle of the locker room, letting his eyes roam over the walls decorated with Montreal Metro’s logos and inspirational signs, avoiding eye contact with the other prospects, as chatter in English, French, and several languages Ilya didn’t recognize washed over him.
He was here, and here he would stay. This had been his mother’s dream for him, to escape Russia and his father’s heavy hand, and he would not dishonor her memory by being sent back. He would figure out what the coaches wanted from him and deliver them the perfect hockey player.
In Russia, his coach had liked his smart mouth, the way he could get under other’s players skins and distract them. His cockiness had been encouraged, as long as he could back it up with good hockey. Ilya knew he liked to test boundaries, to find out how far he could go until safety tipped over to danger. He needed to know how far he could push, how outrageous he could be before other people pushed back. It was how he survived, learning the limits of other people’s patience.
His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a large man, significantly older than everyone else in the room, with a messy mustache shot through with grey and small eyes sunk in a fleshy face. He was wearing a Metros jacket that matched Coach Anderson and it was obvious from the way he carried himself that he was in charge.
“Listen up, ladies,” the man said, a sneer on his face. “I’m not here to blow smoke up your ass. You may have been hot shit back on whatever podunk timbit team you were recruited from, but you can forget all of that. This is your first day in The Show, and for some of you it will be your last. If you skate hard, take direction, and impress the coaches this week, you might have the chance to come back next week to see what you’ve got against real hockey players. No one is guaranteed a spot on my team,” and Ilya could feel the coach’s eyes glaring at him, “no matter how wet the GM is about drafting a top prospect.”
His eyes moved away to scan the rest of the room and Ilya zoned out, the coach’s speech flowing too rapidly for him to follow. He was careful to keep his expression blank, an art he’d perfected from years of letting his father lecture him about every perceived flaw and insolent act.
Finally, the man seemed to be winding down. He was red and sweaty and Ilya repressed a shudder of disgust as he noticed the spit hanging from his lips. With a final “Don’t waste my time,” he finally left and the group of boys looked around, stunned faces wiped of their earlier excitement.
“Okay,” Coach Anderson said, clapping his hands. “That was Coach Theriault and his very encouraging welcome speech.” He paused as the boys let out nervous chuckles. “Find a cubby to stash your stuff and get suited up. Some of you might have to share today. We’re going to get out there and see what you can do, have some fun.” He headed out the door that led further into the complex, pausing at the exit to say, “It’s just hockey.”
There was a mad scramble as boys claimed cubbies, those who already knew each other quick to pair off. Ilya didn’t recognize any of the other boys and didn’t really want to spend a lot of time getting to know them. He headed for an empty cubby and started unpacking his bag, placing a roll of his favorite tape on the shelf and starting the process of arranging his pads. Once he made the team and knew who his fellow players would be, he’d worry about making friends. This week was for proving that he was the best, not socializing.
“Hey, uh,” Olsen asked from behind Ilya’s shoulder. “Can I share with you?”
Ilya turned to see Olsen scuffing his foot on the floor and avoiding eye contact. A quick glance around the room showed all the other cubbies had been claimed, most with two boys in front of them.
“There is no one else you could …?” Ilya asked, waving his hand to indicate the whole room.
“I mean, I could…but,” Olsen’s hand was rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided eye contact. “Johnson’s a dick, Erikson hasn’t discovered deodorant, Edwards is a fucking goalie, and I don’t know the rest.”
“And you thought…” Ilya said, gesturing towards himself.
“Look, I know we’ve known each other for five seconds, but I just need a place to lay out my gear. Be a bro, bro,” Olsen said, his pleading voice nibbling at the edges of Ilya’s walls.
Ilya rolled his eyes, exasperated at this person trying to disrupt his plan to not give a shit about anyone else. He was not here to make friends. He was here to play hockey and prove he was the best.
“Fine,” he said, gesturing towards the cubby magnanimously . It would keep anyone else from trying to share with him he thought as he watched Olsen set his bag down and begin to unpack.
People are joking about Jacob's comment regarding the s2 budget and "the folks at Peloton will make you rich" but that is literally the strategy. Both Hudson and Connor are little artist freaks who are in film for the love of the game, and by taking these lucrative advertising deals they are ensuring they make enough money while being able to take the roles they want. Heated Rivalry doesn't pay their bills, Verizon and Peloton and Tiffany and Balenciaga do, so they can spend 8 precious weeks in Toronto this summer doing what they love. They can take roles in niche Canadian indies and fund their own projects without having to worry about making rent.
It's a joke, but it's also the point. They are both clearly giving themselves room to be picky and only take the roles they want. It's smart as fuck and I applaud them and their teams for it and won't ever judge the boys for their commercial gigs.
We’re sleeping on the concept of Shane actually being the number one draft pick and going to the Bears/Raiders and Ilya going to Montreal as the second pick.
I don't want to be a needy bitch, but I posted a new chapter of a fic 2 days ago and there have been no comments, which is a real kick in the balls to my motivation to keep working on it.
hi!!! ive seen and appreciated a bunch of your hollanove fic recs and im wondering if youd be open to maybe recommending me some that revolve around the idea of shane joining Boston rather than ilya going to Ottawa? no pressure if not im just having a hard time finding any since tags are still in development 🥲
oh absolutely!
boston boys is a classic (explicit, 38k, ongoing) and i really like the relationship development in this one.
the tricks out of our sleeves is newer and shorter (explicit, 11k, also ongoing)
operation romeo & juliet is a fun twist where boston decides to get shane hollander to the bears' side for their captain's sake. unrated, 13k, complete. it's part of an au series as well, so the hollanov background is a little different.
(we could be) something great is the longest of the bunch by FAR (111k, mature, ongoing) where the bears just kind of. kidnap him post-concussion. it's fine. he agreed and everything.
Home Ice Advantage (explicit, 51k, complete; sequel explicit, 13k, ongoing): Shane is traded to Boston 6 months into his rookie season with Montreal. https://archiveofourown.org/works/76095686
frequently, secretly fond of each other (explicit, 158k, ongoing): Shane misses the draft and joins the Bears a year late. https://archiveofourown.org/works/75380761
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