#grebenkin!reader

Watching your brother at the rink is one of your favorite pastimes, from the ponds in Serov, the KHL rinks, even now to the NHL, watching your brother do what he does best has been the highlight for you. Being the oldest is hard, especially when you're the oldest girl. Nikita loves to act like a big brother to you, which technically is correct as he stands at 6 ‘2 and you’re lucky to be 5 ‘1 on a good day. He’s always monitoring you and keeping a close eye to who you talk to no matter where you are, he knows you can handle yourself, he just doesn’t ever want to see you get hurt.

You don’t mind, you think it’s sweet, you keep to yourself mainly anyway as talking to his teammates in english has never been your strong suit. Always self conscious of your accent and the way you unintentionally say something wrong that makes native speakers laugh. Which is why you typically just cock your head to the side and smile politely at his teammates when they try to speak with you, even though that feels unnatural as well.

Today was different though, you’d been in a funk all January and now February was settling in and the feeling was getting worse. So when you were sitting in the stands waiting for Nikita to come out after practice, you saw an opportunity you couldn’t pass up. You noticed your brother's team mate Noah Cates looking between you and his phone for the last few minutes, gear bag slung on his shoulder as he just stood there, seemingly at war with himself. You’re just reading your book on the stands waiting for something interesting to happen, then it does, Noah begins to approach you. 

Mumbling something to himself, he takes a deep breath, stopping in front of you and finally looking up from his phone you hear him ask “Kak Dela?”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip trying to stifle a laugh, now you understand how native English speakers feel, he butchered the pronunciation. Still you smile gently and respond “Ной, ты первый в команде, кто попытался заговорить со мной по-русски.” (You're the first person on the team to try to speak to me in Russian, Noah)

He looks up at you eyes wide and confused, like a cat who escaped outdoors for the first time “I think I heard my name in there, I didn’t know that you knew it.” he replied.

“Я стараюсь запомнить имена товарищей Никиты по команде.” (I try to remember the names of Nikita's teammates.) You reply with a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

You watch Noah fumble with his phone for a second trying to open an app “Can you repeat that?” You realize what he’s trying to do, live translate your conversation so he can be an active participant. You just shake your head and let out a small laugh. 

“Моему брату не понравится, если ты со мной будешь разговаривать.” (My brother won't like it if you talk to me.) You say, as your eyes spot Nikita coming out of the locker room and over your way in lock step with Matvei Michkov.

Noah’s eyes frantically read the translation that comes up on the screen “Your brother, why would I have to be worried about what he likes?” He says as Nikita and Matvei come to a stop behind him, Nikita looks up at you inquisitively and Matvei is holding in a laugh.

“You have to worry about what I like since I like what is good for her.” Nikita says from behind Noah, causing him to jump out of his skin and turn around in horror.

“No that’s not– I didn’t mean it like that, I asked her what’s up– I think, and then she said something back in Russian, I thought she spoke English too but– I’m sorry dude.” Noah says nervously, not wanting to upset Nikita in any way. You, however, are loving every moment of this giggle to yourself on the bench. Your brother shoots you a look over Noah’s shoulder that roughly translates to “Can you leave the poor guy alone?” You shrug and throw your hands up in surrender with a playful smirk.

“Ника, пожалуйста, веди себя так, будто я делаю что-то не так. В этом нет ничего плохого.” (Nika, please you act like I'm doing something wrong. There's nothing wrong with it.)

“Когда ты заденешь его чувства, тебе останется винить только себя.” (When you hurt his feelings, you only have yourself to blame.)  he says back to you.

You turn your attention to Michkov, eyes pleading “Он прав, Яна, на этот раз я тебя спасти не смогу.” (He's right Yana, I can't save you this time)

Noah is looking back and forth between the three of you trying to keep up, you can tell his head is spinning.

You roll your eyes and hop up from the stands joining your brother “It was nice seeing you try to talk to my sister Cates, but we do have dinner plans unfortunately” your brother says apologetically to his team mate.

“Oh no problem dude, I’ll see you tomorrow at morning skate before the game.” he replies.

Nikita gives a nod and you give Noah a very heavily accented “goodbye” with a wave and follow your brother out of the arena and into the cold February air.

“Whatever it is that you’re planning Yana, it’s not going to work.” He says without even looking back at you.

“Nika, I am not planning anything, I was simply talking to one of your teammates. Not my fault he doesn’t speak Russian.” you say defensively while trying to keep up with his long strides.

“Catesy is a good guy, he was really trying with you, can you please be nice to him and speak to him in English?”

You scoff “Right, and embarrass myself like I did in Toronto with Domi. I’ve never had someone laugh at me so hard for a mispronunciation before. I’d like him to hear me speak in Russian, you know how smart I am in our native language.”

The memory even now brings slight stinging tears to your eyes, finding out that a video of you mispronouncing basic english foods on a date with Domi was being sent around the locker room in Toronto was not the best experience. It’s not your fault that the English language is so confusing.

“Yana, you know it’s not like that and even if it was, I would protect you better this time.” Nikita says. You know he beats himself up from not learning about Domi’s plan to embarrass you and your accent and he wishes that he could go back in time and do a better job to find out and put a stop to it before it happened.

“I don’t need you to protect me Nika, besides I don’t think I’ll be going on a date with any of your teammates for the foreseeable future.” You say nudging his elbow with your shoulder.

— — — — — —

You didn’t know it then but you were more wrong than you could ever imagine. Practice after practice you found yourself in the company of one Noah Cates, and his trusty translator app. He really was making an effort to get to know you and you stopped giving him such a hard time with the app. Today was no different, the beginning of March made you feel like a new person, your birthday coming up in a few short weeks had you giddy in a way you thought you would never feel again in February.

Noah drops his gear bag on the bench near you and takes his usual place on the bench below you in the stands so he’s looking up at you. “Hey Yana, did you see my impressive work on those breakout drills today?” he says almost like an excited puppy

You close the book you were reading and without looking up reply “Ты неплохо справилась, хотя, думаю, наша одноногая бабушка могла бы справиться лучше.” (You were okay, I think our one legged grandma could do better though.)

He lets out a laugh reading the translation of what you just said, his big lopsided grin looking up at you. You finally meet his eyes and your breath catches slightly in your chest, feeling like you were seeing him for the first time while also feeling seen for the first time. You push the feeling down; you only feel like this because your birthday is coming up you try to convince yourself.

You let your eyes roam over his face, drinking him in, dark stubble on his jaw, dark messy hair still wet from a combination of practice sweat and post practice shower. Imagining that face, and that smile, waking you up in the morning, while you tussle his hair and make him laugh with some secret joke.

“Are you okay, Yana?” His voice snaps you from whatever trance his face had held you in.

“Yeah, what do you mean, do I not look well?” You say in English, hands rushing to your face to cool your cheeks from all the blushing you’re undoubtedly doing, not even realizing you answered him in English at first.

“You.. you speak English, I thought you only knew russian?” Noah says with a very confused look on his face.

“Noah, I’m so sorry, yes I’ve spoken english this whole time.” you say, feeling your stomach drop, you suddenly can’t stop talking in english “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I’ve been made fun of for my accent before, I didn’t want the same thing to happen again I’m so sorry. If you don't want to try to be my friend anymore I understand.”

“I’m not hurt, I'm just confused.” He stays sitting there, elbows on his knees, phone forgotten in his hands for once. The translator app times out and the screen goes dark between you.

“I just… thought you were more comfortable in Russian,” he says carefully. “So I was trying to meet you there.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten.

“I am more comfortable in Russian,” you admit. “It feels like home in my mouth. English feels like I am walking in someone else’s shoes.” You give a small, embarrassed shrug. “Too big. Too loud.”

He smiles at that, softer now. “Your English doesn’t sound loud.”

“You didn’t hear it in Toronto,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

Noah’s expression shifts immediately. “Was that the thing with Domi?” he asks gently. He doesn’t say the first name, but you know who he means. The date. The video. The humiliation that followed you like a shadow for months.

You nod once, staring down at your hands. “He thought it was funny. I did not.”

Noah’s jaw ticks. “That’s not funny.”

“Well,” you try to brush it off, forcing a small laugh, “apparently it was.”

He shakes his head. “Yana, listen to me.” His voice loses that playful edge you’ve grown used to. It’s steady. Grounded. “Having an accent just means you speak more than one language. That’s impressive. I can barely order food in Russian without offending somebody’s grandmother.”

You huff out a reluctant laugh.

“I butchered ‘kak dela’ so bad you almost fell off the bench,” he adds.

“You did,” you say, a smile finally tugging at your lips. “It was terrible.”

“See? And you didn’t record me and send it around the locker room.”

The simplicity of that statement hits harder than anything else he’s said.

“I would never,” you say quietly.

“I know.” He tilts his head, studying you the way you had studied him minutes before. “And I would never laugh at you for trying. Not like that. If I laugh, it’ll be because you call me a one-legged grandma again.”

You groan, covering your face. “You were not supposed to understand that.”

“I have technology,” he says, wiggling his phone. “And now apparently I have you in full English mode.”

Heat creeps back into your cheeks, but this time it’s different. Lighter.

“I don’t want to hide,” you admit. “I just… didn’t want to be the joke again.”

“You’re not a joke,” he says immediately. “You’re—” He cuts himself off, like he almost said too much. “You’re Yana.”

The way he says your name—careful, like it matters—makes your heart do something inconvenient. There’s a sudden commotion near the tunnel. You don’t need to look to know your brother is somewhere within ten feet of you.

“Catesy,” Nikita’s voice calls out, suspicious in the way only an overprotective older brother can manage.

Noah doesn’t even flinch this time. He just looks up past you and says, “Relax, Nik. We’re discussing linguistics.”

“Linguistics,” Matvei repeats from somewhere behind him, clearly trying not to laugh.

You stand, leaning over the railing so you can see them. “Он не делает ничего плохого,” you call down. (He’s not doing anything wrong.)

Nikita narrows his eyes at Noah anyway. “She speaks English,” he says flatly.

Noah grins. “Yeah. Found that out.”

“And?” your brother presses.

“And I think she sounds great.”

You freeze.

Nikita looks between the two of you, clearly trying to decide if this is a problem he needs to solve. Finally, he sighs dramatically. “Yana,” he warns in Russian, “when you break his heart, I will not be responsible.”

“Who says I will break his heart?” you shoot back.

Matvei lets out a full laugh at that and physically drags your brother toward the exit before he can escalate further. When they’re finally gone, the arena feels quieter. Smaller. Noah stands up so he’s only one step below you now. Close enough that you can see the faint scar on his chin, the one you’ve always wanted to ask about.

“So,” he says. “Since we’re being honest. Are you planning anything?”

You tilt your head. “Planning what?”

“With me.”

Your pulse jumps. “I thought my brother already interrogated you about this.”

“He did,” Noah says. “But I’m asking you.”

You consider lying. Deflecting. Retreating back into Russian where everything feels safer. Instead, you take a breath.

“I was not planning anything,” you say slowly. “But I also was not expecting you.”

His brows lift slightly. “Is that good or bad?”

“I have not decided yet.”

He smiles, that crooked, unfair smile that makes you imagine mornings and messy hair and private jokes. “Well,” he says, “your birthday’s coming up, right?”

Your eyes widen. “How do you—”

“Nikita talks,” he says simply. “And I listen.”

“That is dangerous.”

“For him or for me?”

“For you,” you reply, and this time you don’t hide the warmth in your voice.

He takes one more step up so you’re standing on the same level. Not towering over you like your brother. Not looking up at you from the bench. Just… even.

“Let me take you out,” he says. “Not as Nikita’s teammate. Not as the guy with the translator app. Just me.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“In English?” you ask.

“In whatever language you want,” he says. “We can mix them. You can teach me. I’ll embarrass myself first.”

You study him for a long moment, searching for any hint of mockery, of hidden laughter.

There is none.

“Okay,” you say finally.

“Okay?” he repeats, like he’s afraid he misheard.

“Yes. But if you laugh at my accent—”

“I won’t.”

“You will be dead,” you finish sweetly.

He laughs at that, but it’s the right kind of laugh. The kind that wraps around you instead of cutting.

“Deal,” he says, holding out his hand.

You look at it for a second before slipping your much smaller one into his.

As you walk out into the cold March air together, you realize something quietly, almost shyly. Maybe English does not feel like someone else’s shoes anymore. Maybe, with the right person walking beside you, it can start to feel like your own.

The entire week leading up to the date, you pretend you are calm.

You are not calm.

You change your outfit three times the night before and twice the morning of. You text your best friend back home in Serov blurry mirror pictures and receive voice messages filled with dramatic gasps and very strong opinions. You almost ask Nikita for advice, then remember that would require admitting you are going on a date with his teammate.

Absolutely not.

Noah had insisted on planning everything. “I’ve got it,” he’d said, that quiet confidence in his voice again. “You just show up.”

Which is how you find yourself standing outside a small Italian restaurant a few blocks from the arena, staring at your reflection in the dark window and debating whether you can still fake a stomach flu.

“Yana.”

You turn at the sound of your name.

Noah is walking toward you, hands shoved into the pockets of a navy coat, hair actually styled for once instead of damp and chaotic. He slows when he sees you fully, and for a second he just… looks.

And looks.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he says softly. “You just look… wow.”

You roll your eyes automatically, but your cheeks betray you. “You clean up well too, Cates.”

He grins. “I showered twice.”

“I can tell.”

He steps closer, awkward for just a second, like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to hug you. You solve it for him, leaning in briefly. His arms wrap around you carefully, like he’s afraid you might break. He smells like cologne and something familiar underneath—soap, maybe, or just him.

Okay. Breathe.

Inside, the restaurant is warm and softly lit. Not fancy enough to make you nervous, not loud enough to hide behind. He pulls out your chair without making a big show of it. You notice.

“So,” he says once you’re seated. “I was going to take you somewhere super high-end, but then I thought maybe we save that for when I’m not terrified.”

“You’re terrified?” you ask, delighted.

“Completely.”

You tilt your head. “Good.”

He laughs. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

A waiter approaches, launching into a fast explanation of specials. You understand most of it, but when he starts listing cheeses, you freeze.

Cheese names in English are a trap.

Noah notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says gently once the waiter leaves to give you a minute. “We can take our time.”

“I just don’t want to pronounce something wrong,” you admit quietly. “Last time I tried to order… ricotta… it did not go well.”

“Ricotta,” he repeats carefully. “You said it fine just now.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I swear I’m not.” He leans forward slightly. “And even if you did say it wrong, who cares? We’ll still get fed.”

You study his face, searching again for that edge of teasing.

There isn’t one.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Then I will order.”

When the waiter returns, you force yourself not to overthink it. You speak clearly, accent and all. The word ricotta leaves your mouth and lands on the table between you.

Nothing explodes.

The waiter nods and writes it down like it is the most normal thing in the world.

Noah beams at you like you just scored a hat trick.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but you can’t stop smiling.

Dinner unfolds easily after that. You slip between English and Russian without noticing. When you can’t find a word, he waits. When he doesn’t understand, he asks.

At one point, he attempts an entire sentence in Russian.

“Ты… очень… красивая сегодня,” he says slowly, clearly concentrating.

You blink.

“You just called me beautiful.”

His ears turn red. “Did I say it right?”

Your chest feels too small for your heart. “Yes,” you say softly. “You did.”

“Good,” he replies, looking relieved. “Because I meant it.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

There’s a comfortable pause. Not awkward. Just full.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a moment.

“You already are.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Why did you really keep speaking Russian with me?”

You trace the rim of your water glass. “Because in Russian, I am confident. I am funny. I am smart without translating myself first.” You glance up at him. “In English, I have to think about every word before I let it go.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that.

“Well,” he says, “for what it’s worth, I like both versions. But the one who’s thinking carefully before she speaks?” His eyes soften. “She’s kind of my favorite.”

Your breath catches.

“You are very smooth tonight,” you accuse.

“I practiced,” he admits. “Matvei graded me.”

You burst out laughing. “That explains nothing.”

When the food arrives, conversation shifts to lighter things—childhood stories, disastrous peewee hockey haircuts, your birthday coming up.

“I was thinking,” he says casually, stabbing a piece of pasta. “Maybe I could steal you for your birthday. Just for a few hours.”

“Steal me?” you echo.

“I’ll return you. Probably.”

“You would have to get through my brother.”

“I’m aware,” he says grimly. “I’ve accepted that risk.”

You shake your head, smiling. “We will see.”

By the time dinner ends, you don’t feel like you’re walking in someone else’s shoes anymore. You’re not counting syllables. You’re not bracing for laughter.

Outside, the March air is crisp, the sky dark and clear. He walks you toward your building, close but not crowding.

When you stop at the entrance, the moment hangs between you.

“I had a really good time,” he says.

“So did I.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admit.

He steps a little closer. “Can I—”

“Yes,” you say before he can finish, then immediately flush. “I mean. I think so.”

His smile is soft this time. No teasing. No nerves. Just him.

He leans down slowly, giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.

The kiss is gentle, warm, not rushed. His hand comes up to cup your cheek like it’s something precious. For a second, the world narrows to just that feeling.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Still terrified,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Good.”

He laughs quietly, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home?”

“You better,” you reply.

As you slip inside your building, heart racing and lips still tingling, your phone buzzes almost immediately.

Noah: Did I pass?

You grin at the screen before typing back.

Yana: You were okay. Yana: I think our one-legged grandma could do better though.

Three dots appear instantly.

And for the first time in a long time, February feels very, very far away.

March fifteenth arrives loud.

Not just because it’s your birthday—but because apparently half of the Philadelphia locker room has decided it is their personal mission to make sure you cannot experience a single quiet moment.

You should have known.

When you walk into Nikita’s place that evening, Noah’s hand warm at the small of your back, the first person you see is Travis Konecny already halfway through a drink and grinning like he’s been waiting for this.

“There she is!” he shouts. “The birthday girl! Twenty-four, huh? We’re getting old, Michkov!”

Matvei, who is balancing a plate of something fried and suspicious, gasps dramatically. “Do not group me with her ancient age.”

You roll your eyes. “You are literally younger than me by months.”

“Exactly,” he says smugly.

From the kitchen, Travis Sanheim calls out, “Who let TK near the decorations? The ‘2’ is upside down.”

“I did that on purpose!” Konecny protests. “It’s abstract.”

You step further inside and take it all in. Streamers—orange and black—are strung across the ceiling. A massive gold 24 balloon is tied to a chair that looks seconds away from tipping over. On the coffee table sits an enormous cake with аккуратная icing in Russian that reads: С ДНЁМ РОЖДЕНИЯ, ЯНА.

Your heart squeezes.

“Who wrote that?” you ask.

Jamie Drysdale raises his hand cautiously. “I copied it from Google. If it says something weird, that’s on the internet.”

You laugh. “It says happy birthday. You did well.”

From the corner, Cam York and Tyson Foerster are arguing about the playlist. Owen Tippett is taste-testing frosting. Denver Barkey is pretending to help Nikita with food but mostly stealing pieces when he thinks no one sees.

Chaos.

Warm, ridiculous chaos.

You barely have time to set your purse down before someone yells, “Gifts! Open gifts!”

You groan. “Can I breathe first?”

“No,” Konecny says. “Absolutely not.”

Before you can protest further, Noah appears in front of you, holding a small navy-wrapped box with tiny silver stars.

The room doesn’t go quiet, but it shifts. People notice.

“This one’s just from me,” he says, a little softer than everything else happening around you.

Your stomach flips.

As if summoned, Konecny drapes an arm over your shoulder. “So, Yana, tell us—did Catesy do a good job on his gift?”

Noah, who is standing just behind you, chokes. “Travis.”

“What?” TK shrugs. “He’s been stressed all week.”

You turn slowly to look at Noah. “You were stressed?”

“I just wanted it to be good,” he mutters, ears already pink.

Sanheim leans against the wall, smirking. “He made us vote on three different options.”

“You voted?” you gasp.

“Unanimously,” Tippett confirms.

You look back at Noah, eyes wide. “You crowdsourced my birthday present?”

He winces. “In my defense, they have surprisingly decent taste.”

“I do not,” Konecny says proudly.

You take the box carefully. The paper crinkles loudly in your hands, suddenly amplified in your ears. You peel it back slowly, aware of how close he’s standing.

Inside is a thin rectangular case.

You open it.

A delicate gold necklace rests against the velvet lining. Two small interlocking rings—one slightly smaller, one slightly larger—looped together.

You look up at him, confused and already overwhelmed.

“One’s for English,” he says quietly. “One’s for Russian.”

The room feels smaller somehow.

“They overlap,” he continues, voice steady despite the fact that Konecny is very obviously trying not to comment. “Because you don’t have to choose one. You don’t have to be one or the other.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

For a split second you’re back in Toronto, laughing too loud, speaking too carefully, wishing you could disappear into your own accent.

And then you’re here. Twenty-four. Surrounded by people who waited for you to finish your sentences instead of laughing through them.

“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” you whisper, blinking fast.

“Worth it,” he murmurs.

You step closer without thinking. “It’s beautiful,” you say softly. “Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

You turn slightly, lifting your hair off your neck. His fingers brush your skin as he fastens it, careful and warm. The clasp clicks into place.

When you turn back around, the rings rest perfectly at your collarbone.

Konecny squints dramatically. “Okay, that’s actually good.”

“Thank you,” Noah says dryly.

Tippett nods in approval. “Solid move.”

Matvei leans over your shoulder to inspect it. “This is acceptable.”

You laugh through the last of your tears. “High praise.”

Before the moment can get too intimate, Barkey yells, “Cake before Nikita eats it all!”

“I would never,” your brother says, already holding a fork.

The lights dim. Foerster starts the birthday song in English. Matvei loudly begins the Russian version at the same time. It dissolves into chaos within seconds.

You stand in front of the cake, fingers brushing the new necklace unconsciously.

Twenty-four.

You close your eyes.

You don’t wish for your accent to disappear. You don’t wish to be less noticeable. You don’t wish to shrink.

You just wish to stay this brave.

You blow out the candles.

Cheers erupt. Someone pops something that absolutely was not approved by Nikita. Frosting nearly ends up in York’s hair.

Later, after cake and an aggressive dance-off between Tippett and Foerster, you slip toward the kitchen for air. Noah follows quietly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, touching the necklace again. “No one has ever given me something like this before.”

He leans back against the counter. “You deserve something that reminds you who you are.”

“And who is that?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Someone who doesn’t have to translate herself to be understood.”

Your heart stumbles.

Across the room, Nikita notices your proximity and narrows his eyes. You raise your brows in challenge.

He sighs and looks away.

Noah glances over. “Is he going to murder me?”

“Not tonight,” you reply. “It is my birthday. He will wait.”

“That’s comforting.”

You smile, stepping just a little closer. The noise of the party hums behind you—York arguing about music, Konecny yelling about a rematch, Matvei switching between Russian and English so fast it gives Barkey a headache.

And for once, you don’t feel like you’re standing outside of it.

You’re in it.

Both languages. Both worlds. Both rings resting against your skin.

Noah squeezes your hand gently.

“Happy birthday, Yana,” he says.

And when you kiss him this time, you don’t worry about who’s watching.

You’re twenty-four.

You’re not hiding.