Chapter Text
Rivalry (noun)
1. Competition for the same objective or for superiority in the same field.
2. A state of prolonged mutual hostility.
Example: "Hollander, lose. Rozanov, win." - Ilya Rozanov, April 1987
Vienna was gray. Ilya was used to the gray. The barracks he lived in eleven months of the year were gray. The slush on the Moscow streets he'd soon see again was gray. The faces of the men deciding his future…also gray.
Inside the locker room of the Wiener Stadthalle, the silence was absolute besides the occasional barking of the coaches. Ilya Rozanov sat on the wooden bench, his head down, staring at the floorboards. He was twenty-one years old, and according to the Western scouts whispering in the tunnels, he might be the best hockey player on the planet. But according to the men in the room holding KGB-issued briefcases, he was a socialist ideal.
He felt like a bomb. His chest was tight, a band of iron constricting his lungs. He felt the high-frequency vibration in his bones that told him he was about to shatter. He looked at his hands. They were steady, but they didn't feel like his. They felt like tools borrowed from the Central Sports Club of the Army.
"Rozanov," the coach barked.
Ilya stood. He didn't think. Thinking was dangerous. He simply let the Red Machine take over.
The ice was a blinding, pristine white under the arena lights. On the opposite side of the red line stood the Canadians. They were loud. They were messy. They leaned against the boards with a casual, arrogant ease that made Ilya's stomach turn.
And there was Hollander.
Shane Hollander wore #24. He was skating in small, effortless circles, his jersey fluttering behind him. Ilya didn't need to look at the roster to know his name. He had been looking at Shane for three years. They had met in the freezing rinks of Quebec during the '84 tour, in the humid, salt air of Helsinki in '85, and under the watchful eyes of the Kremlin in Moscow in '86. For three years, they had been the twin suns of their respective empires. Every time they met, the world held its breath, waiting to see which version of perfection would prevail.
Shane looked like he had never known a day of hunger, never known the fear of a correctional interview, never known the crushing weight of an entire empire's reputation resting on his shoulders. He looked like he was playing because he liked it.
Ilya hated him for it. It was a sharp, acidic jealousy that burned through the gray fog.
Hollander was there, on the face-off dot. He looked perfect. It was disgusting. His Team Canada jersey was bright, his hair messy, and his eyes shifted around the arena with an individualistic hunger. Ilya couldn't stop looking at him.
But then the puck dropped, and the world became a blur of red and white. Ilya moved like a demon. He glided, his edges biting into the ice with a precision that was terrifying. He scored the first goal at the six-minute mark. A lightning-fast snap shot that the Canadian goalie never even saw.
But Hollander was there. Every time Ilya turned, Hollander was his shadow. The Canadian was fast, matching Ilya stride for stride.
The 1-0 lead Ilya had carved out in the first six minutes felt fragile. In the Soviet system, a goal was the expected outcome of a correctly executed algorithm, a box checked, never cause for anything so indulgent as celebration. Ilya skated back to the bench, his heart hammering in a rhythm that felt disconnected from his body.
The Canadians didn't play with algorithms. They played with a chaotic, desperate energy that Ilya found both baffling and offensive. Midway through the first period, Shane Hollander stripped the puck from a Soviet defenseman who had hesitated for a micro-second too long, looking for the correct pass.
Shane didn't look for a pass at all. He drove the net with a reckless disregard for his own safety. He took a heavy slash to the shins, stumbled, and somehow scooped the puck into the top shelf while falling.
The stadium erupted. Shane punched the air, screaming something at the rafters. Ilya watched him from the bench, the static in his brain spiking. How are you allowed to be that loud? Ilya wondered. How are you allowed to be that messy and still win? Still be loved?
Ilya caught the puck at center ice. He saw Hollander coming. A freight train of Canadian entitlement. Ilya didn't swerve. He wanted the impact. He wanted to feel something real, something that wasn't the static in his brain.
The crash was seismic. Hollander's shoulder drove into Ilya's broad chest. They slammed into the boards with a sound like a gunshot. For a second, Ilya was pinned against the glass, Hollander's face inches from his. He could see the fury in Hollander's eyes, the sweat dripping off his chin, the sheer life pulsing through him. The static in Ilya's head cleared, replaced by the sharp, electric heat of Shane's proximity. It was the first time in weeks Ilya had felt like he was actually inside his own skin.
The feeling lasted about two seconds. He felt his soul hovering above the ice, looking down at two boys fighting over a piece of rubber. He gripped Hollander's jersey, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric. He wanted to scream. How is it so easy for you? Hollander shoved him back, his mouth moving in a string of English curses Ilya couldn't translate, but the tone was clear: Get off me.
The second period was where the pressure began to cook Ilya from the inside out. He could feel the eyes of the minders in the luxury boxes. Every time he touched the puck, he felt the weight of his father's career, his future, and the glory of Russia pressing down on the back of his neck like a hand.
The static became a physical fog. Ilya saw a lane, but his body felt five seconds behind his brain. He fumbled a simple cross-ice pass. A mistake he hadn't made since he was eight years old. Canada pounced. A quick transition, a scramble in front of the net, and a Canadian winger, not Hollander, but someone just as boisterous, poked it home.
Ilya stood in the face-off circle, his vision blurring. He felt like he was looking through a telescope from a great distance. He saw Hollander skate past him and give him a little shove. A cocky, capitalist taunt.
"Wake up, Rozanov," Shane chirped.
Ilya didn't know the words, but he knew the smirk. It was the ease of it that hurt the most. Shane was allowed to fail, allowed to try again, and allowed to mock his opponent. Ilya was only allowed to be a machine.
The 2-2 goal was a moment of pure, terrifying focus. It came from desperation, not joy. Ilya took the puck in his own zone. He accelerated through the neutral zone, his edges screaming against the ice. He saw Hollander coming for the check. He pulled the puck through his own legs, a move that was strictly forbidden by his coaches for being showy and unreliable, and left Hollander grasping at empty air.
He knew where the net was by heart. He fired a backhand that seemed to defy physics, tucking it into the microscopic gap between the goalie's pad and the post.
The arena went silent for a heartbeat before the Soviet section let out a measured, rhythmic cheer. Ilya didn't pump his fist. He didn't scream. He simply turned and skated to the bench, his face a mask of cold, porcelain perfection. Inside, he was screeching. His hands were shaking so hard he had to tuck them under his armpits. He looked across the ice and saw Hollander staring at him, breathing hard, his face a mix of shock and renewed competitive fire.
The game was a stalemate until the final minutes. The 2-2 tie was a failure. Ilya could feel the coach's eyes boring into his back. The air in the arena had grown stale, heavy with the sweat of forty men and the mounting desperation of an empire. With less than three minutes on the clock, the static in Ilya's head reached a deafening pitch. It was a rhythmic pounding that matched the blood thrumming in his ears.
He saw the Canadian defense shifting, a momentary lapse in their aggressive posture as they looked toward the clock. Shane was deep in the Soviet zone, fighting for a puck that wasn't there. He looked tired. Humanly, beautifully tired.
Ilya didn't wait for the coach's whistle. He intercepted a lazy clearance at the red line, and for the first time in his life, he didn't look for a teammate. He didn't look for the correct pass. He looked only at the narrow, shimmering lane of white ice between him and the net.
He exploded.
His strides were long, predatory, fueled by a jagged hatred for the silence they expected of him. He felt Hollander's presence before he saw him. The familiar, heavy thunder of #24's skates pursuing him from behind. Hollander was closing the gap, desperate to fix the mistake of the turnover. Ilya could hear his labored breathing, a frantic sound that made Ilya's own heart ache with a cold, triumphant jealousy.
Twenty feet from the net, Hollander lunged. It was a desperate, diving poke-check, the kind of move a man makes when he has everything to lose and no system to catch him. Ilya felt the wind of the stick blade move past his ankle. He didn't swerve. He leaned into his edges, his body carving a trajectory that felt like it was tearing the world in half.
He pulled the puck to his forehand, lured the goalie into a split-second commitment, and then, with a flick of his wrists that felt like snapping a bone, he dragged it back. The puck hit the crossbar with a sound like a pistol shot and deflected straight down, burying itself in the netting before the goalie could even blink.
USSR 3, Canada 2.
The final buzzer was a mercy. Ilya didn't celebrate. He stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs, waiting for the humming in his head to stop.
He watched the Canadian bench. Hollander was slumped over his knees at the blue line, his stick snapped in two across the ice. A violent, physical manifestation of a loss he was allowed to feel. Ilya watched him, the static in his brain finally, mercifully, falling silent. He had won. He had proven the system worked. As he looked at Hollander's broken stick, he realized that the win felt less like a victory and closer to a stay of execution. The tournament wasn't over. The medal ceremony was over a week away, and there were more games to be played. Ilya didn't wait for his teammates to finish their post-game rituals. He turned toward the tunnel, his skates echoing on the rubber matting.
The tunnel was a throat of damp concrete, swallowing the sounds of the arena. Ilya waited in the shadows, his breath catching in his chest. When Hollander appeared, looking battered and radiating a loud, Western fury, the static in Ilya's head transformed into a cold, singing triumph. Ilya didn't wait for him to pass. He stepped out of the dark, blocking Shane's path.
He drove a finger into the center of Shane's chest, right over the embroidered maple leaf.
"Hollander," Ilya poked. His voice was a low, raspy scrape, but there was a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. A razor-thin expression of pure, unadulterated vanity. "Lose."
Shane's eyes widened, flashing with a bewildered anger. "What? You got lucky, Rozanov. One bounce and we would have buried you. You played like a robot for two periods—"
Ilya didn't let him finish. He pointed to his own chest, his thumb hooking into the collar of his jacket with a possessive flare.
"Rozanov," he corrected, his voice dropping low. "Win."
His English was clumsy, garbled, but the blow landed. He saw the flicker of doubt in Shane's eyes. Ilya savored the silence.
"Next game," Ilya croaked, the English words tasting like iron and honey. "Hollander lose."
He walked away. Behind him, he could feel Shane's stunned, heated silence. As Ilya walked toward the Soviet locker room, he felt like a king, even if only for this moment.
That kingly glow lasted about forty seconds. It died the moment he walked into the locker room. Two men in gray overcoats stood in the corner, their faces expressionless, their presence pulling every molecule of warmth out of the air.
One of them, a man with a thin, sharp nose and eyes like chips of flint, stepped forward. "Rozanov. Come."
And the static was back. A violent, high-pitched whine. He was still vibrating with the adrenaline of approaching Hollander, giving him a taste of his own arrogance. That adrenaline was fading quickly as he followed the men into a small, windowless office at the back of the arena.
His coach was there, standing by a desk cluttered with Western newspapers, smoking a cigarette.
"Sit," the man with the flinty eyes directed.
Ilya sat. He kept his back straight, his chin up. If he was going to get chewed out tonight, he was going to take it like a man.
"A victory tonight," the official said, though his tone suggested he was discussing a spreadsheet error. "The State is...satisfied. For now." He leaned forward, sliding a newspaper across the desk. It was a Canadian broadsheet. Even without knowing the language, Ilya recognized the jagged logo: the Montreal Metros.
"There are reports," the official continued, "that this team—these Metros—intends to use one of their draft selections on you this June. They are making a public spectacle of it. They call it a bold gamble. We call it a declaration of war."
The official tapped the newspaper with a nicotine-stained finger. "They know you cannot leave. They know you are a soldier of the Red Army. They are choosing you as a joke, Rozanov. To show the world that they can own a Soviet hero on paper, even if they never see him in the flesh. They want to turn you into a publicity stunt."
"A wasted pick," his coach barked from the shadows. His voice was like grinding stones. "They will say your name in June and forget you by July. A ghost in their system. A name in a ledger that never hits the ice."
Ilya stared at the logo. Montreal Metros. Inside the gray fog of his mind, a single, illicit thought flared. What is Montreal like? Less gray? To the men in this room, Ilya was a symbol. To the Metros, he was a prank. For one fleeting, terrifying second, the idea of being a wasted choice felt better than being used. If he was a ghost in Montreal's system, at least he existed somewhere else besides this room.
"You will remain silent," the flint-eyed man said. "The Western press will try to find you to speak to you about this honor before the tournament ends." He spat the word honor like a curse. "You will say nothing. You are an argument for the power of the Soviet Union, and tonight, you won that argument. Do not make us regret your talent, Ilya."
The meeting was over. Ilya stood, his legs feeling like lead. As he walked out, back toward the locker room where his teammates were quietly packing their gear, the word Metros echoed in the static of his brain.
He wasn't a king anymore. He had never really been one.
He felt the pressure of the empire tightening around his throat again, and realized that if he was going to be a wasted pick in June, he might as well make sure he was the best one they ever made.
The second meeting between the USSR and Canadian teams was five days later. It was a sixty-minute exercise in mutual distaste and exhaustion. It had none of the fire of the first game. A cold war playing out on the ice, it ended in a 0-0 stalemate.
Ilya skated through the game in a state of total dissociation. The static was so loud it felt like physical pressure against his eardrums. He moved through the motions. The perfectly angled checks, the clinical passes, the defensive positioning, but he wasn't there.
Across the ice, Shane Hollander was fighting the puck, fighting the system, and fighting the fact that he couldn't break through the Red Machine. Every time their eyes met, Ilya saw a raw, simmering frustration in Shane. Shane was used to winning, and this tournament was stripping that from him, layer by layer.
After the final horn, the walk to the locker room was a gauntlet. The Western reporters were like sharks scenting blood in the water. They had heard the rumors. They wanted to know if the best player in the USSR was ready to become a Montreal Metro.
"Ilya! One question about the draft!"
"Rozanov! Do you want to play in Canada?"
Ilya kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the rubber matting. His minders were a physical wall around him, their shoulders broad and their faces set in stone. One reporter thrust a microphone toward his face, and Ilya felt the urge to strike out, to scream, to say anything that wasn't a rehearsed line about Soviet collective glory.
He said nothing. He didn't even blink. He let the reporters see exactly what the Soviet authorities wanted them to see: a robot. A socialist ideal with no interior life.
The tournament ended quietly, with a cold, hollow thud. Sweden took the gold. The USSR, failing to secure the top spot, was relegated to the second tier of the podium. Canada sat in fourth, the cruelest position in international sport, watching from the sidelines, empty-handed.
Ilya stood on the silver tier, the medal feeling like a lead weight around his neck. In Moscow, silver was just a polite word for failure. He looked down at the Canadian team standing near the boards, waiting for the ceremony to end so they could escape to the airport.
He found Shane.
Shane was looking at Ilya. His face wasn't full of capitalist ease anymore. It was hollowed out, dark circles under his eyes, his Team Canada jersey looking heavy and wrong. He looked at Ilya's silver medal with a mix of envy and loathing. As the teams filed off the ice, their paths crossed one final time near the player entrance.
Ilya slowed his pace. Shane was leaning against the concrete wall, his gloves tucked under his arm. Ilya didn't have a smirk today. The static was too heavy for vanity. But he still had the need to anchor himself to the only person who had made him feel any kind of sunshine in this gray city.
He stopped in front of Shane. The air between them was electric, charged with the shared trauma of a tournament that had broken them both in different ways. Ilya reached up and touched the silver medal around his neck, then pointed a gloved finger at Shane's empty chest.
"Hollander," Ilya rasped. The English felt like glass in his throat. "No win."
Shane's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his breath hot against Ilya's face. "Yeah? Well, you got the wrong color, Rozanov." Ilya got the gist of that one, what with how Shane was gesticulating at the Swedish team.
Ilya didn't flinch. He leaned in. He didn't mention the Montreal Metros. He didn't mention the June draft. He just gave Shane a look of such profound, arrogant pity that it felt like a physical blow.
"I win," Ilya said. It was a lie. They had both lost to the Swedes, but in the private war between #24 and the Red Machine, Ilya was the one standing on the podium. He didn't wait for Shane to retort. He turned and followed the gray coats into the dark of the tunnel.
The June draft was less than two months away. The Calgary Olympics were ten months away. The bus back to the barracks smelled like diesel and damp wool, and Ilya sat in the last row and stared at the window and thought about Hollander the whole way home. He realized the thing he was looking forward to the most would be beating Hollander in his own country.