Chapter Text
Yuna had turned off the TV. The room was quiet. She had planned on watching the Pittsburgh game today, but her whole worldview had turned on its edge. Hockey would have to wait.
Instead, she thinks. No one knew her son better than she did. She was sure of it. She had been there for his first moments, first steps on the ice, first hockey game. The day of the draft, every commercial. Sure, once he went pro, she stopped attending every game but she watched them later.
She knew that he didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. But that was because he was different. Not a bad different, she defended to herself. But better. The other kids were loud and immature. Shane had just wanted to play hockey. He had always been a little awkward, but sweet. And polite.
Nothing like that Boston asshole Ily-
She was getting ahead of herself. The point being, is all that Shane’s friends had been just like Hayden Pike. Nice, charming, decent people, right down to their bones. Not a lot of friends, but always carefully selected.
Most importantly, Yuna knew about all of them. She knew every aspect of Shane’s life. She was his mother, manager, agent, and yes, friend. It wasn’t that she felt entitled to know every aspect of Shane’s life. It was just a fact. The sun revolves around the earth, the Voyagers are going to the playoffs this year, and Yuna Hollander knew everything important about her son.
And so, apparantly, did Ilya fucking Rozanov.
He knew too much. It was too specific. His knowledge of Shane’s routines, his home, his personality-
His smug fucking tone leaked through the Russian translation, the way he declared that Shane Hollander didn’t really hate anyone. What a dick. In fact, he was such a dick that his assholeness somehow leaked through the TV, and infected her son’s tone, the way he snapped at her.
Shane never snapped at her. Suddenly her frustration and anger and surprise morph into every mother’s most familiar feeling. Worry, and self-recrimination.
Her son’s friend was going through a hard time, and here she was being upset about it.
Shame welled up inside her. David often teased her that she cared too much about hockey, but she knew his teasing hid a deeper truth. She wanted Shane to be the best, because she had always known he could be. Maybe she pushed him hard, but she had to. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, to be raunchy or rowdy like the other players, to have reputations. And that was her fault. If he had a different mother, looked a little different, represented something else…
And besides, she had never, not once, gotten the sense that Shane truly minded her presence. He wanted her to be his manager, wanted her at every game, bought his own house ten minutes away from hers. Those were his decisions he made, as an adult.
But still, Shane couldn’t afford to be associated with such a playboy. As Rozanov had said, reputations were everything in hockey. It was what separated the good from the best.
Against her will, Rozanov’s words filled her mind again.
”Who’s third best?”
“No one.”
Yes, the rivalry was key to their image, Yuna could admit. She had always resented Rozanov for taking Shane’s place in the spotlight, for having Shane’s generational dominance always be underscored by a question mark. But still, it was important. No one could talk about one without the other. What one achieved, the other would be expected to. Yin and yang, swirling around each other since the day they landed on the ice.
She wondered, briefly, if Rozanov thought he was stealing Shane’s spotlight, or merely sharing it.
And then she wondered about her own little boy, always better than anyone else at his peewee games. Always the MVP, always the coach's favorite. Always alone, at the top. Shining, yes, dominant, yes, successful, but also alone. Yuna had thought he was happy there. He never seemed to be lacking, never complained.
Was it possible that Shane looked across the ice to his rival, his only equal, the only person who really understood hockey, and saw a friend?
Someone to confide in. Someone to call when everything goes wrong.
Yuna stared at the spot from where her son disappeared to answer his rival’s call. The answer was, evidently, yes.
Yuna felt her heart grow cold. What did it say about her, that she had never even once considered it?
***
Ilya was going to fire his goddamn agent. First, he sets him up for a useless, personal interview in Russian. When was the last time he had ever had to play the media game in Russian? Never. He was out of practice, unguarded. Vulnerable. No longer having the second to two it took to translate made his answers slip out quick, unexamined. The stupid investigative journalist with blue hair had looked right through him and pried open his bloody secrets for the whole world to see.
Second, his shithead agent doesn’t properly review the footage before allowing ESPN to air it. He’d shit talked his country, his league, talked about Shane Hollander…
Third, all the fucking phone calls and meetings were in English. The stupid interviewer had asked if he had a lawyer who spoke Russian and English. Of course he didn’t. There weren’t any, not at the caliber he needed, with the right speciality. He could understand just fine. Until the rapid fire legalese started.
He didn’t want a translator. Didn’t trust them. Having a translator was weak, and stupid. It made the Americans with college degrees treat you like you weren’t even there. So he endured.
Apparently this meeting was urgent enough to be called the same day the interview aired. It was late, well past regular business hours. Ilya supposed he should be flattered.
He stared ahead at the woman talking. He was mostly looking at the Boston skyline, a slick view from the skyscraper office they were seated in. Officials from the Bears and the NHL were crowded around a fine table, all taking turns to “talk seriously” and “express their concerns.”
“The NHL is saddened by your comments about the Patrick Kane case and wants a statement from you on the matter,” she said.
Patrick Kane, another face in the news for allegedly raping a woman. The investigation hadn’t continued. The NHL had done nothing. Now it was Ilya’s problem.
“I did not talk of Patrick Kane or the rape case,” Ilya ground out. “I say rapist, they say Patrick Kane. Says more about them than me, no?”
The faceless men and women in suits hadn’t appreciated that. He shouldn’t try to be funny. He shouldn’t have spoken in Russian. He should have stayed in the little box he had made. Ilya Rozanov, Russian, asshole, womanizer, and idiot. No further questions, no further insight. No further fucking problems.
And yet… it had been so wonderful to have been asked in Russian. To be praised and validated in a language that so often had only condemned him. The language of his childhood, his mother. But also dangerous, because words sprang so easily to him.
“The NHL believes in equality for all, and needs all its representatives to be on the same page for this. We found your comments to be out of line with our values.”
What the fuck did that even mean? Rapid fire speech, specialized words and phrases and expressions. Ilya suspected that even if he was fluent the meaning would be obscured.
Luckily, one of his lawyers stepped in. “Mr. Rozanov did not intend for those comments to be publicized. I think it is clear that he understands the importance of branding.”
Thank fuck. At least he wasn’t paying these people for nothing.
“Rozanov,” another one of his lawyers called out from the doorway. Even his name sounded foreign with these people. “It’s the embassy. They want to talk to you”.
Ilya couldn’t muster a response that wasn’t ‘fuck you’ so he got up to take the call.
“Ilya Rozanov,” the voice said from the phone.
“This is he,” Ilya responded in Russian. The voice on the other end was most certainly Russian.
“This is Sergey Kislak, Russian Ambassador to the US.” The voice said. Low and deep, with a Moscow accent. The man’s face flashed through Ilya’s mind. He’d never met him, but anyone who was anyone in Moscow had heard of him. They called him the diplomat’s diplomat.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency,” Ilya said politely. He was an officer’s son, first and foremost.
The man laughed, an affable habit he had developed to ingratiate himself among the Americans.
“Listen, my son. I never knew your father. Heard of him, of course. He was a good Moscow man. Served his country proudly.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Ilya said.
“I’m sure he’s looking out for you from heaven. Just as Russia looks out for you now.”
“That is a nice thought, Your Excellency.” Bullshit.
“Son, no one wants this to turn into a debacle. No one wins. We’ve all enjoyed watching you play. No one wants to listen to you speak, do you understand me?”
“I understand, Your Excellency."
“Play your game. Fuck your women. Be Russia. Do not talk about Russia. Next time I call, it will not be so nice.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” If Ilya had to say ‘Your Excellency’ one more time he was going to scream. It was like talking to his own father. Yes sir, no sir. The tone and the language sends him right back to his childhood, being scolded.
“More lives than your own are at stake here. You are the face of Russian hockey in the US. I know you understand the game, my son. Keep playing, make us proud.”
And then the Russian ambassador to the US hung up on him.
Ilya sighed. That could have gone much worse. Maybe it will, one day. Perhaps power will change hands and someone will deem him a liability instead of an asset.
A small ‘ding’ alerted him to an incoming text message.
Jane: How is it going?
Lily: I am not getting sent back to Russia, but the NHL is pissed.
Jane: Let me know if you need to talk to someone. I’m always here.
Ilya didn’t respond, pain creeping up his spine.
He was never going to give another Russian interview. He had too much to lose.