Chapter Text
Ilya's fingers are twitching for a cigarette.
He can't have it, not yet, not till he's out of the stuffy locker room and free from the heaviness of defeat.
They were good, but Boston was better, tearing right through them like a pack of angry wolves. Ilya left plenty of bites of his own—not just the chirping, well-timed remarks and shoving their opponents into the boards, but also his two beautiful goals that Boston couldn't defend.
Not a disaster, but—
With a sigh, he plops onto the bench, getting rid of his gear. He listens to the discussion absentmindedly—it's dulled, slightly distorted. After defeats nobody raises their voice.
"We should go to the bar, maybe have a few drinks," someone proposes, and there's no immediate protest. They probably deserve some entertainment after such a fight.
Ilya stares down at his hands. He discovers new callouses under his ring finger; the veins also seem to be marked more clearly today. He's been clenching his hands quite a lot while on the benches.
"Hollander, are you going out with us?"
Ilya snaps up his head.
Hollander made himself small. He's sitting in the deepest corner of the benches, movements stiff but controlled as he puts on his trainers. He's keeping his lean limbs close to his body, taking as little space as possible. The sweats are swallowing him, too, and with the hood pulled over his head Ilya can't see his face.
"Nah. I think I'll go home."
"And when exactly do you plan to relax? You've been strung up high the whole game."
Hayden isn't exactly wrong. Hollander wasn't himself today for whatever reason. It's not like he caused their defeat, no—but he didn't help them raise the stakes either.
It seemed like he wasn't fully present on the ice, his muscles stiff and glance out of focus, as if something was plaguing his mind. And fuck, they needed all sticks aboard, and one of their best players being not there meant a catastrophe.
Ilya would have to investigate and see if anything can be done to fix it, but first—he really needs that cigarette.
"I plan to go to bed earlier today."
Ilya shakes his head. He's not the only one—both Hayden and JJ do the same. They are standing close, but are careful not to touch Hollander or crowd him too much.
"Come on, Shane. You could have a few drinks, and we could find you a nice Dom—"
"Please don't."
"You can't live like a monk your whole life!"
Ilya is sure that whatever face Shane is making right now means watch me, but it doesn't deter his friends.
"It's serious, Shane. You can't keep fucking yourself up because you can't handle asking for help."
However brash they make it sound, they do have a point—not that Ilya cares, because he absolutely does not.
"I can cope."
Hayden and JJ exchange glances, wordlessly making some kind of a decision—and Ilya doesn't have a good feeling about it. He quickly pulls up his own sweatpants and starts tying his sneakers, just in case.
"Okay, look, here's the deal: you're not going to bed early. You're going out with us. Just stop. Stop drowning in guilt and—"
Ilya clocks the exact moment Hollander gets ready to bolt, like an alarmed, skittish animal. JJ hasn't even used much pressure in his command, but—he should have known better. Hollander is extremely averse to touch and commands even on a good day; and when he's in a bad state—it's like dropping a bomb and hoping it wouldn't explode.
Ilya isn't sure if he should step in and do some damage control yet. He may be the team captain, but Hollander isn't his sub, after all; in fact, he isn't anyone's sub.
Still, he gathers his things and slowly walks towards the door, placing himself strategically next to it. He pretends to be fiddling with his pockets in search of something, but in reality he's keeping an eye on the conversation happening in the corner.
"Fuck off," he hears. "Leave me the fuck alone."
One expletive per sentence plus a command issued to two Doms. Impressive job, Hollander, Ilya thinks with a chuckle.
Then Hollander bounces off the bench and he's off in a blur, fully charged to blast into the exit.
"Hollander."
To Ilya's surprise, Hollander stops as soon as his name registers. He glares at Ilya from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, and it's the first time today Ilya can clearly see his face. Hollander's eyes are tired, a bit hazy, which takes Ilya aback.
Does this guy even know how close he is to dropping? Do his friends know?
Ilya casts a glance towards their teammates over Hollander's arm. As expected, they are staring back, but they at least have the decency to look ashamed and worried, silently begging for Ilya to clean up their mess.
He always cleans up their mess.
"What do you want?"
Ilya's eyes flick back to Hollander and he fights a smile.
The exit isn't blocked. Hollander could have left at any given moment, especially since Ilya didn't issue a command (not that Hollander would have listened). Yet—
"Is that how you talk to your captain?"
It's teasing, calculated to disarm Hollander and pull him out from the fog he's in—and it seems to work, for his shoulders drop a fraction. He doesn't lower his guard completely and the daze doesn't completely disappear, but he's still here, not running away. Ilya takes that as a good sign and tries not to overthink it.
"If he's being an asshole, then yes."
The insult lacks any heat. If anything, it sounds rather tired, as if all Hollander wanted was to curl up and die. He was never good at chirping, anyway.
Ilya fishes out his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket and waves them in front of Hollander.
"Join me outside?"
Not a full order, but not a simple question, either. Still, Ilya carefully leaves it open, the choice up to Hollander.
He doesn't wait for an answer. With a "See you later, boys!" and a wave, he pushes through the exit. He keeps his gaze straight, walking down the corridor, but his ears remain strained for a sound of footsteps. A few seconds later he hears it—Hollander is following him all the way back to the back door.
The sky outside is horribly grey, as usual at this time of the year, and the wind hits Ilya's freshly washed hair. It's going to rain, probably. March weather has been cruel.
Ilya leans against the wall, pulling out a single cigarette as he waits for Hollander to join. Hollander lingers in the entrance, unsure what to do with himself, till he finally settles against the wall, too. He maintains careful distance—two metres of a chasm separating them.
"What was that about?" Ilya asks calmly, not bothering to look to his left. He already has Hollander off-balance.
"What do you mean?" Hollander splutters, chaos and scattered thoughts incarnated, all while Ilya takes out a lighter and carefully lights up the cigarette. He has to fight the winds to do it, but he's not in a rush. "You shouldn't be smoking here."
Hollander is right, he shouldn't be smoking here, right under the red NO SMOKING sign, but Ilya rarely plays by rules. Poison fills his lungs, and he enjoys the big fuck you gesture he's throwing to the universe.
Idly, he comments, "You played like shit today."
"That's not—I didn't—I'm not—"
He patiently waits for Hollander to finish his sentence, but it never comes. Instead, Hollander ends up shutting his mouth completely, glaring at his fingers curled tightly around the strap of his bag.
"So what happened?"
Again, Ilya waits, calmly meeting Hollander's doe-like stare. Hollander still looks like he's on the verge of going down, pupils wide, hazy, lips unable to string a sentence together, and hair completely fucked up.
"I don't know."
Ilya doesn't know what prompts Hollander to slide down till his ass is firmly planted on the cold pavement. He has half the mind to scold Hollander, but—it's not his place. Maybe Hollander is just tired. Maybe it's easier this way.
Still, he watches, wondering when exactly the weight of Hollander's breath became his responsibility.
"I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong," he says quietly before taking another drag of his cigarette. He pointedly looks away to make space for Hollander to gather his thoughts.
"Nothing is wrong. It's—it's nothing specific, really. It's just—"
Ilya waits patiently. He knows the feeling of words being too big and too hard to find quite intimately.
"I just feel off-balance in my head, if that makes sense," Hollander mutters before pausing again. His thoughts are loud. "I can't focus. I feel like there's this weird fog in my brain. It—it won't disappear, no matter what I do."
It's not a full explanation, but it's a start, and Ilya listens, glaring at the clouds gathering in the sky. He still says nothing.
"It throws me off on the ice, too. Like—well. Like I'm there and at the same time I'm not. I don't know. It's hard to explain."
"When did it start?"
"After our loss in New York."
After New York, huh?
That was three weeks ago, which quite a long time to stew in the post-loss desperation. Ilya thought that most of the team has already recovered from it; losses are a part of the game, after all.
Then again, that loss was brutal, worse even than today—they were kicked down with a score 4 to 1. Ilya himself was benched through half of the game after he'd gotten into a fight with the other team's captain. Hollander managed to score a goal right after that, most likely fuelled with anger enough to burn his way through. Still, they lost, and they left the arena with bruised limbs and pride.
And god, three weeks—
"You've been feeling like this the whole time for three weeks? Jesus Christ, Hollander. Are you insane?"
He didn't mean to get heated, but rage for some reason boils bright under his skin.
He looks down at the ball that Hollander has turned into, and hears a whimper.
"I didn't mean to make a big deal out of it," Hollander says, barely audible. "It will pass, I know, I just need time to—"
"Why haven't you told anyone?"
"I can cope. I'm okay."
"Fuck me," Ilya complains. "You're a horrible liar, Hollander."
Hollander says nothing, his head coming to rest on his knees, so Ilya decides it's time to escalate his intervention.
"You know that the loss isn't your fault, right?"
"But it is. If I haven't—"
"Alright," Ilya cuts in decisively, because he realises it will spiral straight out of control, and he needs to hold the leash. "What did you do well today on the ice?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
Yet, Hollander still avoids the answer in a typical Hollander's fashion—with another question.
"Why are you doing this?"
Why, indeed. That's a golden question, one Ilya would also like to know the answer to. Still, he attempts at it, with the cigarette growing cold in his hand.
"We aren't friends and you aren't my sub, Hollander, but I'm not heartless. You're clearly not okay, and I can't allow you to spiral right into subdrop. So—I'm still waiting for your answer. What did you do well today?"
Hollander is quiet for a moment that stretches into infinity even with another drag of Ilya's cigarette. It's getting colder, too, and his fingers are starting to get numb, yet Ilya doesn't rush to leave.
This is important.
"I scored a goal," Hollander finally says in a broken voice. Ilya fights to keep his steady.
"Good. What else?"
"There's noth—"
"Hollander."
Ilya lets the warning ring, wrapped in the steel of Hollander's own name.
He's carefully avoided giving Hollander any orders, knowing what they can do to unattached subs, Hollander in particular, but he wonders if that's helpful at all. He guesses his approach is safe enough to keep Hollander afloat, but not enough to pull him out.
Then again Hollander isn't his sub. It's not Ilya's responsibility to take care of him, yet—
Eh. How annoying.
"I have no idea what you want me to say. I fucked up the assist in the second period. I allowed them to take the puck from me exactly eleven times. I chose bad angles for my shots. I was fucking slow. I have nothing good to say about my game. You said it yourself—it was shit."
Maybe that's the problem, Ilya thinks. Hollander tends to overanalyse the games, and sometimes it's an advantage since he takes account of every single mistake he's made and fixes it. He's also able to pinpoint his teammates' mistakes and help them improve. That skill makes him a dangerous player.
But—his thinking never stops, spiralling into oblivion with mistakes trailing behind. Obviously, it feeds into the endless well of self-depreciation that Hollander has already cultivated, especially after another brutal defeat.
"Hollander," Ilya puts out his cigarette and steps towards Hollander. His movements are careful, soft; he doesn't want the scared stray kitten to bolt. Said kitten's eyes track him. "What do you do to de-stress?"
"I just go to the gym and sleep and sometimes read?"
Ilya sighs deeply, even though he's expected a similar answer.
He kneels in front of Hollander, hands visible, but ready to catch—just in case.
"See, that's a problem. You never relax, never do anything fun. You think about hockey all the time. That's not healthy."
"Are you saying I should look for a new hobby?"
Hollander is wary, but at least making attempts at joking. Ilya allows himself a loop-sided smile as he studies Hollander for a longer while. Hollander still hasn't dropped, which is a good sign, but if he has been at the verge of losing it for three fucking weeks—
"I know it's not my place to say anything, but—Hollander, I'll be blunt with you," he says, his voice lower and controlled, as if he were speaking to a scared animal. "I think you should consider finding a Dom. You can't go like this forever. You're already crashing, and it impacts not just you, but the boys, too. We need you fully in the game, and you can't perform at your best like this."
"I know, but—"
"You're scared, I know. That's okay. I just need you to be brave. Can you do that?"
"I don't know," Hollander says in a small voice, his eyes wide, scared. He's still folded into himself, shaking. His cheeks are rosy, flushed either because of the wind or emotions. "It hurts when they touch me."
Ilya nods, pursing his lips. Subs who can't stand being touched by anyone who isn't their Dom aren't rare, but Hollander is even more sensitive, to the point of pain.
Ilya wondered—not once and not twice—what kind of Dom could be it for Hollander, to touch him freely, to hug him, to kiss him, to be with him. What kind of person would be allowed to strip Hollander of his armour.
Then—he gets a very, very unhinged idea. He probably shouldn't even be thinking about it, but something in Hollander's face prompts him to let it out in the open. Maybe it's something akin to trust despite his anxiety making him small.
"I want to make a bet," he announces.
"What bet?"
"That I can find you a good Dom."
Those seconds when Hollander stares right into his soul are the longest in Ilya's life. It makes him sweat more than today's game.
"I doubt such a person exists for me."
Ilya tries his best to keep himself from frowning.
"Oh, Hollander," he drawls, putting his best smile on, "you don't know the extent of my matchmaking abilities. You may think it's impossible, but I bet I can find someone right for you."
"You're going to lose this bet."
Ilya is already winning by seeing Hollander smile. It's small, but definitely there, and the haziness lifts up from his eyes. Hollander is competitive, after all, and Ilya's idea might actually be the most unhinged and most successful in bringing him back to his usual high-performing self.
"We'll see about that." Besides, Hollander isn't the only competitive one. "What do you get out of this?"
"A command that you'll have to obey."
Hollander bites his lip, but doesn't look away. Then—slowly, very slowly, he nods.
"Okay. Chances for that are low, anyway."
Ilya shrugs. "I'll take it. Also—I think you should go out with the boys tonight. You need some entertainment even if you plan to sit moping in the corner. I don't want you to fixate on hockey today and sit alone in your room spiralling."
They are hit by another strong gust of wind that messes up Hollander's hair. Ilya tilts his head and reaches into his own duffel bag to pull out a beanie. He proceeds to put it on Hollander's head, careful not to touch his skin.
"Will you come, too?" Hollander asks breathlessly as Ilya's fingers linger on the fabric of the stupid beanie, fixing it. And god, he's so close, with all the freckles for Ilya to admire, that Ilya's heart starts thumping.
"Do you want me to?"
"Yeah."
Ilya doesn't hesitate to say, "Okay. I'll come. Take care, Hollander."
Hollander wears Ilya's beanie to the pub.
Ilya keeps an eye on him all the time, looking for signs of another crash-out—and he finds none. Hollander is pale, maintaining his usual carefully measured distance, but he allows the boys to pull him into a conversation and he even dares himself to drink beer. At one point Ilya even notices a small smile on Hollander's face when he observes shenanigans between Luca Haas and JJ.
He's doing much better than before.
At one point Ilya also hears, "That beanie definitely isn't yours," but Hollander simply shrugs and the subject waters down. Looks like the boys do learn sometimes when they shouldn't be poking the bear.
Ilya, though, is very happy to play with fire, so when he spots Hollander sitting alone with a beer around an hour later, he sits opposite to him and pulls out a lose sheet of paper. He came prepared.
"Tell me, Hollander," he starts lightly. "What is your type?"
Even startled, Hollander is incredibly cute—especially with that beanie on his head. Ilya's beanie.
"My type of what?"
"Of people. Who would you like to date? To Dom you?"
"Uh—I don't know."
Hollander tightens his hands around the glass, pointedly avoiding looking Ilya in the eyes; the impression of a kicked kitten is creeping back.
Touchy subject, Ilya gets it. He has to change strategy.
"You like women, yes?"
"I guess."
"Men?"
"I'm not—I don't—I really—"
That seems to be even touchier subject.
Ilya patiently waits for Shane to wrap up his sentence, but he seems unable to, a frown already forming on his face as he fiddles with his glass. He's doing a poor-piss job at hiding his discomfort.
Ilya notes all of that in his sloppy handwriting on the page, making Shane's eyes jump straight to the piece of paper.
"What are you writing?"
"Making notes," Ilya responds primly. "Need to find you the best person suiting your tastes, yes?"
"It looks like you're writing magical spells."
Ilya blinks at Hollander, then glances down at the paper. It looks normal to him, but then again he's used to the flowy zig-zags of Cyrillic.
"It's Russian."
"Okay, so you're creating hexes. Am I going to be cursed from now on?"
Ilya answer cheerfully, "Perhaps. You're going to be cursed with the best Dom I can find you. So let's see what else—right. Appearance? Any specific wishes?"
"I'm not picky. And it's not like I have experience in dating."
"I know you're not," Ilya says gently, making his voice sound smooth as butter. "Still, I'm sure you have a preference. A type that you're more attracted to. Everyone does."
Hollander doesn't immediately respond, but he's mulling over Ilya's words—so that's a good sign.
"I guess I like blondes," he finally says like he's confessing to an actual crime, and Ilya lights up in delight. "I like nerds, maybe. Someone I can actually talk to about anything and everything. Someone who likes hockey, too—it's hard to keep up with us playing otherwise, I guess. I don't have big expectations."
"Noted."
Ilya does note it all down on his paper, though the criteria burn through his mind in a way that makes it impossible to forget.
"You have a bigger problem, you know. Finding someone I can touch freely is worse than looking for the owner of Cinderella's ball shoe."
"We'll find your princess, Hollander, no worries." Ilya winks. "Tell me more about the pain—what does it feel like? Are the symptoms the same for all Doms? Female and male?"
Hollander furrows his brows.
"It's better with some, I guess? Sometimes it zaps up, like an electric current frying my skin, and leaves bruises, but sometimes it feels merely like a pinch. It's uncomfortable but easier to handle."
"Interesting. And you haven't met anyone who could touch you without giving you pain?"
"We wouldn't be having this conversation if I had," Hollander notes drily, but his shoulders remain relaxed.
"What about subs? Does that hurt too?"
"I haven't tested it specifically, but a few gave me faint marks, yes."
"Fuck, okay." Ilya looks down at his notes, then back at Hollander. "Touching through clothes doesn't hurt, no?"
He already knows the answer, it was drilled into his mind long before Hollander started his contract with the Centaurs; still, he never had the chance to ask about the logistics—and he's simply curious.
"Most of the time not, no."
"Most of the time?" Ilya repeats, his mind screeching, especially when Hollander flinches. He's already carding his memory for any evidence, for understanding—
"Remember how Whyte shoved me into the boards last year in Tampa and tried to command me to get me on my knees? I had bruises afterwards even though I wore full gear. They disappeared quickly, but since Whyte was very hostile and aggressive—"
"Jesus, Hollander. Why haven't you reported him?"
"It wasn't worth it." Hollander's face is sour. "I didn't want to remind the world that I'm a sensitive sub who gets bruises whenever someone touches him."
"Hollander."
"It's no big deal, Rozanov. Really."
Ilya scowls. "It's abuse. It is big deal."
"No need to worry about it. I got it under control."
Ilya bites hard into his lip as he refrains himself from barking back at Hollander.
Not his sub, not his sub, not his sub—
"Okay," he finally says, "but if it happens again—"
"It won't."
Fucking hell.
It shouldn't be making him so irrationally angry, yet—he's already thinking how to sneakily ask the whole team to make extra sure that nobody can even attempt at touching Hollander on the ice. Their teammates probably wouldn't mind.
"Whatcha doing?"
Talk of the devil.
"We're looking for a Dom for Hollander," Ilya cheerfully comments, more than eager to change the subject as the boys sit down. "You might be able to help, actually."
"How so?"
"You'll help me with finding and vetting the candidates. The more candidates we have, the bigger chances for finding someone right for Hollander."
Hayden rubs his hands together. "That sounds fun. So what's the plan?"
Ilya chances a glance at Hollander.
"You talk to them and see if you vibe, then let them touch your hand. How does that sound?"
He expects Hollander to shoot the idea down immediately, but all he gets is an eye-roll and a small nod.
"Really?"
"Might as well try."
The boys cheer, and Ilya feels a surge of pride.
"Operation: Cinderella is on."
