Shutout ; Heated Rivalry x M!Goalie!Reader
Chapter 1: The Brooklyn Rookie
Warnings: swearing, implied anxiety, reader is very tall, eventual Rozanov x Y/N x Hollander
Summary: When a new rookie goaltender takes the hockey world by storm, the Brooklyn Scouts are expected to win the cup. A certain Russian Raider isn't too happy about this...
The crowd roars, sweaty palms slamming against stained plexiglass, beer sloshing onto the plastic seats and cup-covered floor. Cheers echo as the final buzzer echoes through the arena, black and white clad players celebrating their 4-1 win against their rivals. The Brooklyn Scouts and New York Admirals had a long-running history of fire, having gone head-to-head in the playoffs seventeen times in the last four decades, however neither of them had won a cup in thirty of those years.
In the frenzy of joyous, adrenaline-pumped Scouts, the goaltender skates forward, his white stick resting limply in his right hand. Tall, large, and imposing, Y/N Morgan was the man of the night. His teammates line up to flash a grin, pat his back, and bump heads, hollering about the forty-two shots on goals that he saved, letting just one slip in during the final period. The defence itself had been slightly lacklustre, but Y/N was a beast on the ice. He had the highest save percentage in the league, at an astonishing 0.951 after twenty-one games. It was no wonder that the Scouts were predicted to win this year.
Y/N was young, twenty-three years of age. He’d only been signed this summer, and was on his one-year rookie contract. Management was already drawing another one up for the end of the season, wanting to hook him in for the next decade. He’d blown through everyone’s expectations, and it was hard to believe this was the same man who barely looked his coach in the eye.
Like always, he denies the invitation to join his teammates on a celebratory night out. He was one of the most anti-social players, only attending mandatory outings and ceremonies. He almost never interacted with the hungry media either. His teammates didn't mind too much – he was a funny guy, preferring to keep to himself. Who were they to judge when he was the one keeping them in the game?
Just as he leaves the arena, wearing a blue compression shirt and grey joggers, his large bag slung over his shoulder, he notices a man outside, smoking. He was familiar, far too familiar. Ilya Rozanov was one of the most recognisable men in the hockey world – even outside of it. Soft, blonde curls frame his chiselled features, eyes a pale hazel colour. He’s almost as tall as Y/N, well-built in every sense of the term. He had come to watch the game, as the Raiders were due to play the Scouts two evenings later. He wanted to know what all the fuss was about when it came to “that Morgan guy”, as his teammate referred to him as. He would not show it, but a deep-rooted annoyance had sparked within his chest. The Scouts were going to be an issue.
Their eyes meet for a split-second, before Y/N hastily looks away, trudging towards his car. It was an older Honda, slightly scratched in certain areas. It had been a gift from his dad on his nineteenth birthday, and he refused to buy a new one despite earning enough to do so. Only when it exploded on the road would he consider buying something else, as he liked to tell his roommate.
“You are good for a rookie, Morgan.” A deep Russian accent curls into the night air like the smoke that drifts up from Rozanov’s cigarette, Y/N looks over as he unlocks his car. The man steps forwards, a calculating look in his eyes. “Too good.”
The H/C-haired man had heard this many times before. Speculation on whether he’d really just come out of the blue was everywhere. It was almost impossible to believe he hadn't even played in an official minor league before this year.
“I’ve been playing my entire life,” he quietly responds, putting his bag in the trunk and closing the door. “I got lucky with a scout.”
Rozanov leans against his car. “Hm.” Y/N stays silent. It was the truth. He’d first picked up a stick at age four, and had been playing religiously all through elementary, middle and high school. He played almost every night at his local rink, either alone or with a bunch of older men in his town, which is where he got scouted, by one of the men’s friends, who happened to be a Brooklyn Scouts assistant coach. Two days later, he was being watched like a hawk by a whole team of management, and a month after, just before the season started, he was signed.
Rozanov seems to choose his words carefully. “I like how you play. You are… fast. Aggressive. Disciplined. Is good for a hockey player.” Y/N felt like he was being talked to like a baby, but Rozanov was a few years older, and much more experienced in the big leagues than he was. He had no right to argue. Rozanov brings his cigarette to his pink lips, taking a long drag as he watches the man, like a coyote to a rabbit.
“Thank you,” he replies, hand resting on the open drivers-side door. He wanted to go home. It was cold.
The Russian all but scoffs, although there’s a hint of forced playfulness in his tone. “Do not thank me. Is fact. But, do not get comfortable. This is not a baby league.” With that, he turns on his heel and stalks off.
Y/N watches him walk away, wondering what on Earth that guy’s problem was. Was he always that strange with new players? He’d heard that the man was a dickhead, but he’d assumed that was on the ice, not… out in parking lots at midnight.
Shrugging the feeling off, He gets into his car and drives home, although the interaction is burned into his mind. He really didn't want to make any enemies. It wasn't like he was on the front line either, getting into every single face-off and fight. He was just the guy who stood in the way of shots every so often.
Rozanov watches his car pull away, fingers gripping the butt of his smoke so hard it squishes. The Scouts were supposed to be an easy team to beat. Now, he wasn't so sure. He did not need another Hollander in his life. He needed to win again.
Please do not copy or translate my work without permission.
