Language Barrier
Trevor Zegras x Michkov!Reader
Summary: when he discovers that his new teammate’s beautiful sister doesn’t speak any English, Trevor does what any rational person would do … download Duolingo and start butchering her native language, one robotic phrase at a time
The air in the Flyers training facility still smells foreign. It’s a specific cocktail of cold, recycled air, Zamboni exhaust, and the sharp, clean scent of freshly shaved ice that’s universal to every rink in the league, yet this one feels alien.
Trevor, still not quite used to the jarring orange and black replacing the familiar colors he’d worn his whole career, skates a lazy circle around the center logo. The trade was a shock, a seismic shift in the foundation of his world. One day he’s in Anaheim, the next he’s here, in Philadelphia, the new guy on a team with a history so dense you can practically feel it weighing down the rafters.
He’s trying. He’s putting in the work, staying late, being the first one on the ice. He’s making the right noises with the media and trying to find a rhythm with his new linemates. His locker is situated next to the kid, Matvei Michkov. The much-hyped, ridiculously skilled young Russian who plays with a kind of joyful ferocity that’s both intimidating and infectious.
Matvei is quiet at first, watching Trevor with shrewd, dark eyes. But the universal language of a perfect saucer pass bridges the gap, and soon enough, they’re talking. Stilted at first, then more naturally. About systems, about cities, about the best place to get a damn good cheesesteak.
And that’s how Trevor first sees you.
You’re standing by the glass where the players walk out, leaning against the boards with a casual grace that seems entirely out of place in the aggressive, masculine energy of a hockey rink. You’re talking to Matvei in rapid, fluid Russian, a language that sounds like rushing water to Trevor’s ears
A smile plays on your lips as Matvei gestures wildly, probably recounting a botched play from practice. You laugh, a sound that, even from fifty feet away, feels warm.
Trevor stops, his skates kicking up a spray of ice.
“Yo, Matty,” he calls out, coasting over. “Who’s that?”
Matvei turns, a grin splitting his face. “Ah, Trevor. This is my sister.”
He gestures to you, and you turn your gaze on Trevor. It’s a heavy gaze, intelligent and assessing. He feels pinned by it for a half-second. He gives his most charming, easygoing smile, the one that usually works wonders.
“Hey, I’m Trevor Zegras,” he says, holding out a gloved hand, which is dumb, because you’re on the other side of the glass. He drops it, feeling a flush of heat creep up his neck. “Nice to meet you.”
You just look at him. Then you offer a small, polite smile and nod, turning back to your brother to say something in Russian.
Matvei chuckles. “She does not speak English.”
“Oh.” Trevor deflates slightly. “Oh, right. Cool.” He watches you for a moment longer. The way you hold yourself, the quiet confidence that radiates from you. It’s captivating. “Well, tell her it was nice to meet her.”
“I will,” Matvei says, his eyes twinkling with something Trevor can’t quite decipher.
***
This becomes a pattern. You’re there a few times a week, a silent, beautiful fixture at the edge of his new world. You bring Matvei food in Tupperware containers, or sometimes just a coffee. You watch the last few drills of practice, your arms crossed, your expression unreadable. You never talk to anyone but Matvei. And every time, Trevor tries.
“Hey,” he’ll say, pulling off his helmet as he passes, his hair damp with sweat.
You’ll meet his eyes and give that same small, polite smile. And nothing else.
He starts asking Jamie Drysdale about it, his one familiar face from Anaheim, his anchor in this new city. They’re grabbing lunch at a place in Fishtown that’s trying way too hard to be rustic.
“Dude, it’s driving me insane,” Trevor says, stabbing a piece of avocado toast. “She’s … I don’t know. There’s something about her.”
“Matty’s sister?” Jamie asks, scrolling through his phone. “Yeah, she’s around a lot. She’s hot.”
“It’s not just that,” Trevor insists. “She’s, like, cool. You know? She just seems smart. And she only talks to him. It’s like I don’t even exist.”
“Bro, he told you. She doesn’t speak English,” Jamie says, not looking up. “What do you want her to do? Mime a conversation with you?”
“I don’t know, man. Something. A wave? A slightly bigger smile?” Trevor sighs, leaning back in his chair. “The language thing is a killer.”
Jamie finally looks up from his phone, a smirk on his face. “So learn Russian.”
Trevor scoffs. “Yeah, right. I’m just gonna pick up Russian in my spare time.”
But the seed is planted. It’s a stupid idea. A ridiculous, certifiably insane idea.
He downloads Duolingo that night.
***
A week later, he’s ready. He’s been practicing. In his car. In the shower. He sounds like a malfunctioning robot, but he has one phrase down. Privet. Kak dela? Hello. How are you?
He sees you by the Zamboni entrance, waiting for Matvei. His heart does a stupid little tap dance against his ribs. It’s now or never. He skates over, his pulse thrumming in his ears.
“Uh …” he starts, his confidence suddenly evaporating.
You turn your head, your expression patient, expectant. You’re waiting for the usual awkward greeting and subsequent retreat.
Trevor takes a breath. “Pree-vyet,” he says, the syllables feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. “Kak dee-la?”
For the first time, your expression changes. The polite mask slips. Your eyebrows raise in genuine surprise, and the corner of your mouth twitches, threatening to break into a full smile. You look at Matvei, who has just skated up, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face.
Then, you look back at Trevor. And you answer. A long, melodic string of Russian sentences pours from your lips. It’s fast and effortless and sounds impossibly elegant. You finish and look at him expectantly, a tiny, amused glint in your eyes.
Trevor stands there, completely, utterly lost. He used his one and only bullet.
He turns to Matvei, desperate. “What did she say? What was that?”
Matvei is biting his lip, clearly trying not to laugh. He clears his throat. “She says she is good. She thanks you for asking. And she hopes your practice was … productive.”
It was way too many words for that translation. Trevor knows it. But what can he do?
“Oh. Uh, cool.” He gives you a thumbs-up, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. “Tell her yes. Productive. Very.”
You smile, a real, genuine smile this time. It transforms your face, and Trevor feels it like a punch to the gut. It’s dazzling. You say something else to Matvei, tap your brother’s arm, and walk away.
Trevor watches you go, a dazed grin spreading across his face.
“Dude,” he says to Matvei, who is now openly snickering. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Matvei says, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “Your accent is just … very American.”
“Shut up,” Trevor says, but he’s beaming. He made you smile. A real smile. It feels like he just scored in overtime.
***
From your perspective, this is the most entertaining thing that has happened since you moved to Philadelphia. You’re in your shared apartment with Matvei, sprawled on the couch with a behemoth of a textbook on corporate finance balanced on your stomach.
“I cannot believe you didn’t tell him,” Matvei says, grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. He’s still laughing about the incident at the rink.
“And ruin the fun?” You reply in perfect English, not looking up from your book. “Absolutely not. This is a scientific experiment now. We’re observing the North American hockey player in his unnatural habitat: attempting sincerity.”
“He is going to be so mad when he finds out.”
“Or,” you counter, finally looking up at him, “he’ll think it’s funny. And if he gets mad, then he’s not worth it, is he?”
Matvei shrugs, spooning yogurt into his mouth. “He is a good guy, Y/N. A little loud. But a good guy.”
“His pronunciation was an international crime,” you say, a grin spreading across your face. “I almost broke. You were no help. I saw you shaking.”
“It was like watching a baby deer try to speak Russian. It was painful. And hilarious,” he says. “What did you even say to him?”
You smirk. “I told him that I was doing well, and that his attempt at Russian was both brave and deeply flawed, and that I was impressed he’d risk such public humiliation just to speak to me.”
Matvei chokes on his yogurt, laughing. “And I told him you said you had a productive practice.”
“You’re a good brother,” you say, turning back to your textbook. “Now be quiet. I have a midterm on valuation models tomorrow.”
The truth is, it’s not just for fun. Not entirely. Since Matvei got drafted, your life has been subsumed by his. You’re “Matvei Michkov’s sister.” The novelty, the exoticism of being Russian, it makes people, especially hockey players, act a certain way. They’re either weirdly fetishistic about it or they treat you like some fragile doll who needs protecting. Pretending not to speak the language is a shield. It’s an impenetrable wall that lets you observe people as they truly are. It lets you see who’s willing to put in the effort, who gets frustrated, who dismisses you.
And Trevor Zegras, the flashy, cocky American superstar, is putting in the effort. The comically misguided, Google-Translate-fueled effort. And against your better judgment, you find it … charming.
***
The efforts escalate. Trevor abandons Duolingo for Google Translate’s voice feature. He’ll corner you and Matvei, phone held out like a holy relic.
“Okay, okay, I got a new one,” he’ll say, his eyes bright with excitement. He taps his screen.
A robotic female voice emanates from his phone: “Tvoi glaza kak dve zvezdy na nochnom nebe.” Your eyes are like two stars in the night sky.
You stare at him, deadpan. You look at Matvei. Matvei looks at the ceiling, praying for deliverance.
“What’s it say, Matty? Tell her what it says,” Trevor urges, practically vibrating with anticipation.
Matvei sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a younger brother forced into being a wingman. “Trevor, she can understand Russian.”
Travis Konecny and Scott Laughton, who are stretching nearby, burst into derisive laughter.
“No shot, Z!” Konecny yells. “Did you really just use a phone to hit on her? That is the weakest thing I’ve ever seen!”
Trevor’s face turns crimson. “Shut up, TK. It’s romantic.”
He looks at you, his expression pleading. You keep your face a perfect, serene blank, but inside, you’re trying desperately not to smile. It’s the cheesiest, most ridiculous line you’ve ever heard. And he’s saying it with the earnestness of a poet.
You respond in Russian. “Tell him that if my eyes are stars, his pickup lines are a black hole from which no charm can escape. But the effort is noted.”
Matvei, ever the dutiful translator, edits heavily. “She says … thank you. It is a very nice compliment.”
“Yes! See?” Trevor says, pointing a triumphant finger at Konecny. “She liked it.” He turns back to you, a hopeful smile on his face. “One more. One more.” He fumbles with his phone.
The robot voice speaks again. “Ty khochesh' poyti poest' syrnyy steyk so mnoy?” Do you want to go eat a cheesesteak with me?
This time, you do let a small smile show. It’s absurd. The entire situation is a farce. Here is this incredibly famous, sought-after athlete, stumbling over a language he doesn’t understand, using cheesy lines from the internet, all to ask you out on a date he knows you can’t even verbally accept.
You give a small shake of your head and a regretful-looking shrug.
Trevor’s face falls. “Oh. Right. Well, ask her if maybe some other time?”
You say to Matvei in Russian, “Tell him that perhaps when he can ask me without the aid of a soulless automaton, I will consider it.”
Matvei turns to Trevor. “She says … maybe. She is very busy.”
“Busy,” Trevor repeats, his hope flickering. “Right. Of course.”
He looks so genuinely disappointed that you feel a pang of guilt. This game was fun at first, but now it feels complicated. He isn’t just some guy trying a lazy pickup line at a bar. He’s showing up, day after day, making a fool of himself in front of his entire team, just for the chance of a real smile from you.
***
The breaking point comes on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. You’re ducking into a coffee shop near the UPenn campus, trying to get out of the downpour. Your finance textbook is clutched to your chest like a shield, and your mind is a whirlwind of discounted cash flow analysis. You order your latte and find a small table in the corner to wait.
You pull out your phone and call your study partner.
“Audrey, hey,” you say, switching to the easy, colloquial English you use every day. “I’m looking at the problem set for Thursday. Question three is an absolute nightmare. I swear, Professor Davies just invents formulas to torture us. Did you get anywhere with the WACC calculation? Because my numbers are looking completely insane.”
You’re so engrossed in your conversation, so deep in your world of MBA jargon, that you don’t notice them at first.
Trevor and Jamie are sitting at a table not ten feet away.
Trevor is mid-sentence, complaining about a drill from practice, when he hears a voice. A familiar voice, but speaking a language he’s never heard it speak before. It’s a smooth, confident voice, with only the faintest, almost unnoticeable trace of an accent. It’s talking about … WACC? Whatever that is.
He turns his head, following the sound.
And he sees you.
You’re on your phone, gesturing with one hand as you talk, a look of intense concentration on your face. You’re speaking flawless, effortless English.
The world seems to tilt on its axis. Every interaction from the past month flashes through his mind. The polite smiles. The silent nods. Matvei’s barely suppressed laughter. His own pathetic attempts with Google Translate. Tvoi glaza kak dve zvezdy. Oh, God.
“No way,” he breathes, his coffee forgotten.
Jamie follows his gaze. “What?” Then his eyes land on you. “Oh, shit. Is that-”
Trevor doesn’t answer. He’s already standing up. He moves like he’s in a trance, walking slowly toward your table. The coffee shop buzz fades into a dull roar in his ears.
You’re still on the phone. “… no, because if you don’t factor in the market risk premium correctly, the whole valuation is garbage. Just text me what you got for the terminal value, okay? I’ll see you in class. Bye.”
You hang up the phone and take a sip of your latte. When you look up, Trevor is standing over your table, and the look on his face is one of utter, bewildered betrayal.
“You speak English,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A flat, hollow accusation.
The game is up. Your heart sinks into your stomach. You look into his eyes, and the playful cockiness you’re used to seeing is gone. In its place is a raw, genuine hurt.
“Trevor,” you start, your voice quiet.
“All of it?” he asks, his voice low, shaking his head in disbelief. “The whole time? The head nods, the little smiles? Letting me stand there with my stupid phone like a complete idiot?”
The people at the tables nearby are starting to look. You feel a flush of shame creep up your neck. “Can we … can we maybe not do this here?”
“Why?” he asks, his voice rising slightly. “Are you worried I’ll embarrass you? Because I think we passed that point about three weeks ago when I asked you about your eyes being stars in front of my entire team.”
His words are a punch to the gut. He’s not just angry; he’s humiliated.
“Look, I …” You don’t know what to say. Every excuse sounds flimsy and cruel. It was a joke. I was amusing myself.
“Was it funny?” He presses, his eyes searching yours for an answer. “Was it hilarious watching me make a fool of myself day after day? Was that the big joke for you and your brother?”
“No,” you say, and it’s the truth. “Well, at first, maybe a little. But it wasn’t … it wasn’t supposed to be malicious.”
“What was it supposed to be, then?”
You stand up, so you’re at his level. You owe him an explanation. A real one. “It was a defense mechanism, okay? Do you have any idea what it’s like being the random foreign sister in an NHL locker room? It’s a thing. It’s a whole category. I just … I wanted to sidestep all of that. The game started, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”
You gesture to the textbook on the table. “This is my life. I’m getting my MBA here. I’m not just an accessory who hangs around the rink. I have a whole life you know nothing about, and for once, it was easier to just be silent.”
He looks from your face to the book, the words ‘Corporate Finance: Core Principles & Applications’ glaring up at him. He seems to process this, the anger in his expression softening just a fraction, replaced by confusion.
“You’re a student? At Penn?”
“Yes,” you say. “Fluent in English, Russian, and apparently, pretending to be a mute.” The attempt at a joke falls completely flat.
He just stares at you for a long moment. The hurt is still there, swimming in his eyes. He’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before. And, in a way, he hasn’t.
“I gotta go,” he says finally, his voice clipped. He turns without another word and walks out of the coffee shop, leaving you standing there, the scent of rain and roasted coffee beans thick in the air, your heart feeling like a lead weight in your chest. Jamie gives you a wide-eyed, apologetic look before hurrying after him.
The experiment was over. And all you felt was regret.
***
The next few days are brutal. The air in the rink is thick with a new, excruciating tension. You still go to drop things off for Matvei, but you time your visits for when the players are in meetings or already gone. You can’t bear to see Trevor.
Matvei is caught in the middle.
“He is not talking to me,” he tells you one evening, slumping onto the sofa. “Not unless he has to. On the ice, fine. In the room? Silence. He just looks at me, and I know he is thinking I am a liar.”
“You kind of were,” you point out gently, feeling a fresh wave of guilt. “You were my co-conspirator.”
“It was funny at first,” he mumbles, defending himself. “I did not think he would, you know, actually try so hard.”
“Me neither,” you whisper. That was the problem. You’d expected him to be like all the others. To try once, get shot down by the language barrier, and move on. You hadn’t expected the relentless, dorky, surprisingly sweet effort. You hadn’t expected him to care that much.
“I messed up, Matty,” you say, burying your face in a cushion. “I really messed up.”
Meanwhile, Trevor is stewing. He’s replaying every single interaction in his head. The humiliation is still fresh, a hot coal in his stomach. He’d been a joke. The whole team probably knew. Konecny and Laughton’s laughter suddenly seems much more pointed in retrospect.
But as the anger begins to cool, something else settles in. The memory of your face in the coffee shop. The explanation. It was a defense mechanism. He thinks about it. The constant travel, the pressure, being a foreigner in a new country. And you weren’t even the one playing. You were just adjacent to it, trying to build your own life. Getting an MBA at Wharton, no less. That wasn’t some trivial thing. It was serious.
He realizes with a jolt that in all his efforts to talk to you, he never once wondered what you were actually like. He had built a whole person in his head — the quiet, mysterious Russian girl — and had become infatuated with that idea. He hadn’t been trying to get to know you. He had been trying to conquer a challenge.
The realization doesn’t make him feel better. It makes him feel worse. Because he’d been so focused on the language barrier, he’d created a much bigger one himself. He’d made you into an object, a prize to be won. He hadn’t seen the smart, funny, defensive person who was just trying to navigate a complicated life.
The person who, despite everything, he still desperately wants to know.
***
He knows he has to fix it. But he can’t just walk up and say sorry. Not after how he reacted. He needs a gesture. And he knows, with dawning clarity, exactly what it has to be.
It takes him four days. Four days of phone calls, of pulling a favor with a Russian reporter who covers the league, and hours of painstaking practice with a tutor who is probably questioning his life choices.
He finds out from Matvei (who has finally started talking to him again after a tense, on-ice apology from Trevor) which library on campus you study at. He feels like a stalker, but the cause feels just.
He walks into the vast, cathedral-like silence of the Fisher Fine Arts Library at the University of Pennsylvania. It’s all soaring ceilings and intricate ironwork, and he feels about as out of place as a guy in a tracksuit and a backwards hat can feel. Students are hunched over books at long wooden tables, the only sounds the rustle of pages and the soft tapping of keyboards.
He spots you in a carrel near a large stained-glass window. You’re staring intently at your laptop, your brow furrowed in concentration. You look brilliant and serious and completely out of his league. His heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest.
He walks over, his sneakers silent on the old wooden floor. He stands by your table, waiting. After a moment, you sense someone there and look up, your eyes going wide with surprise when you see him. You immediately start to gather your things, a guarded expression falling over your face.
“Wait,” he says, his voice a low plea. “Please. Just … one minute.”
You hesitate, your hand hovering over your textbook.
This is it. He takes a deep breath, channeling all the practice, all the coaching from his long-suffering tutor. He looks you directly in the eye, and he speaks. In Russian.
“Ya dumal, chto problema byla v yazyke,” he says, the words slow, deliberate, and carefully pronounced. He can feel the unnatural shape of them in his mouth. “No ya ponyal, chto problema byla vo mne.”
You just stare at him. Your mouth is slightly open, your books forgotten. Your mind translates the words automatically.
I thought the problem was the language. But I realized the problem was me.
He continues, his gaze unwavering. “Ya ne videl tebya. Ya videl tol'ko ideyu. Prosti menya.”
I didn’t see you. I only saw an idea. Forgive me.
The silence in the library is absolute, but for you, it’s roaring. That he would do this. That he would go and learn not just a phrase, but this phrase. That he would understand, on such a deep level, what he had done wrong. It’s more than you ever expected.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across your face, and you feel the prickle of tears in your eyes. You blink them back.
“Your accent is still terrible,” you say, your voice soft. In English.
A huge grin of relief breaks across his face. “Yeah? I practiced that for, like, eight hours.”
“I can tell,” you tease gently. “But the grammar was perfect.”
“Thank God,” he breathes. “I, uh, I really am sorry. For how I reacted. And for … you know. Being a dumb jock about everything.”
“And I’m sorry,” you say, your voice sincere. “For the game. It was stupid, and it went on way too long. And it hurt you, which was never the point.”
An older librarian gives them a stern “Shhh!” from across the room.
Trevor looks around, then back at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So … that cheesesteak offer? I promise to ask in English this time. No phones involved.”
You laugh, a real, bright laugh that echoes slightly in the cavernous room, earning you another dirty look from the librarian.
“Yes, Trevor,” you say, your smile reaching your eyes. “We can get cheesesteak.”
“Cool.” He beams, rocking back on his heels, suddenly looking like the cocky, charming kid you saw on the ice. “Because I have another line I was working on, but my tutor said it was way too cheesy.”
“Oh yeah?” You ask, leaning forward, a challenge in your eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Okay, but don’t laugh.” He takes a breath. “Are you a discounted cash flow model? Because my projected future with you looks incredibly valuable.”
You stare at him for a beat, completely stunned. And then you throw your head back and laugh, a loud, unrestrained sound of pure delight. It’s the furthest thing from the quiet, polite smiles you’d been giving him for weeks. It’s you. And it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
