#twists

Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Black!Daughter!Reader

Summary: When his daughter asks for braids, hockey star Ilya Rozanov faces his toughest challenge yet, her hair. After a hilarious failed attempt, he takes her to a professional salon to learn properly, proving once again that while he may not always get it right, he will always try.

The first thing you learn about Papochka is that he tries very, very hard.

He doesn’t always get it right. Sometimes he buys the wrong kind of yogurt, the one with the weird fruit chunks you always pick around. Sometimes he forgets that 9-year-olds need more than ten minutes’ warning before his teammate’s barbeque. And sometimes, when he’s frustrated after a bad game, he speaks in rapid-fire Russian that you can’t understand, before he catches himself, runs a hand through his dark hair, and says, “Sorry, 'solnyshko'. My fault.”

But he tries. He has a notes app on his phone filled with things: your school schedule, your favorite color (periwinkle, which took him three tries to pronounce), the name of the stuffed owl you’ve had since the orphanage (Hoot). And four years ago, when the social worker placed your small hand in his large, calloused one, he looked down at you with those intense, bright eyes—eyes that usually glared at opponents on the ice—and promised, in halting, careful English, “We will be okay, you and I.”

You believe him. Even when it’s not okay. Especially then.

Today, the problem is your hair. It’s a cloud of frizz and tangles after gym class, a wild crown that makes you sigh as you stand on your step-stool in the bathroom of Papochka’s sleek, modern condo. He appears in the doorway, already dressed for his evening workout in dark athletic gear, his phone in hand. He stops, his gaze shifting from the screen to you, to the hairbrush you’re wrestling with.

“Bozhe moi,” he murmurs. “Again?”

“It’s tangled,” you declare, tugging at a particularly stubborn knot.

A smile touches his lips, there and gone. Ilya Rozanov does not smile easily for the world, but for you, he has a whole secret collection of them. “Then we evict the knots. Come. Sit.”

This is the ritual. He puts his phone away, takes the brush from your hand, and settles on the closed toilet lid. You sit on the floor between his knees, the cool tiles familiar under your pajamas. He starts at the very ends, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man who spends his life battling for pucks in the corners.

“Svetlana says I need a leave-in conditioner,” you inform him, reciting the wisdom from his best friend. “And that you should use a wide-tooth comb on wet hair, not a brush.”

“Svetlana has many opinions,” Papochka grumbles, but you hear the tap of his phone being unlocked with one hand. A moment later, he says, “Ordered. Wide-tooth comb. Leave-in… this one? With the avocado?”

“That’s the one.”

“Khorosho.” Good.

You sit in comfortable silence, listening to the steady 'pull, pull, pull' of the brush. He learned this from Svetlana, during one of her many video calls from Moscow in those first frantic months. You’d watched, peeking from behind the couch, as the fearsome Ilya Rozanov, NHL star and public menace, held up a hairbrush to his laptop camera like a student presenting a science project, while a beautiful woman with a severe blonde bob sighed and said, “No, Ilyusha, from the 'bottom'. You are not chopping wood!”

He learned from online videos, too. You’ve caught him late at night on the couch, the blue light of his tablet illuminating his focused face, the sound of a cheerful woman’s voice whispering, “...and that’s how you achieve the perfect pineapple puff for type 4C hair!” He’d quickly close it, grumbling about algorithm mistakes, but the next day, a new silk pillowcase would appear on your bed.

The brushing is done. He smooths his large palm over your now-detangled hair. “There. No more knots”

You twist to look up at him. “Papochka?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I have braids or twists? Like Zarya from school? Her mama does them with little beads at the end. They click when she runs.”

He freezes. The brush hovers in mid-air. You see the calculation in his eyes, the same look he gets when assessing a goalie’s weak side. This is new territory. Brushing is one thing. Detangling is a logistical challenge he has mastered. But braids? Braids are architecture.

“Braids or Twists,” he repeats slowly.

“Two of them. Right here.” You pat the sides of your head.

“I… see.”

He doesn’t see. You can tell. But he nods, a single, sharp dip of his chin. “Okay. Tomorrow. After school. We will try.”

The “try” is a valiant, hilarious, and ultimately disastrous affair.

The next afternoon, the kitchen island is transformed into a command center. There is a spray bottle of water, the new wide-tooth comb, four different types of hair bands, a YouTube tutorial titled “EASY Beginner Box Braids” queued up on his tablet, and a look of grim determination on Ilya’s face that is usually reserved for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

“Okay, solnyshko,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “We begin.”

For the next forty-five minutes, you learn that your Papochka, who can execute a slap shot with pinpoint accuracy at ninety miles per hour, has fingers that feel like sausages when it comes to dividing hair into three neat sections. His tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth in concentration. He mutters in Russian, words you’re pretty sure are not for children’s ears. The tutorial video plays, gets paused, gets rewound. “Wait, she goes under, not over… chert poberi!”

Your first braid is… lumpy. It’s thick in some places, skinny in others, and it seems to angle oddly off the side of your head like a drooping plant. The second one is even worse. By the time he tries to secure the end with a band, the entire structure unravels, flopping into a sad, loose puff.

He stares at his handiwork in the reflection of the microwave door. You stare at it in the tablet screen he’s propped up. A slow, deep blush creeps up his neck.

You don’t mean to laugh. It just bubbles out of you, a giggle at first, then a full-bodied laugh that makes you clutch your stomach. The sheer absurdity of it: this giant of a man, defeated by hair.

He looks at you, and for a heart-stopping second, you think he might be angry. But then his own lips twitch. A snort escapes him. Then he’s laughing too, a rich, rumbling sound that fills the kitchen. He leans his forehead against the top of your head, his shoulders shaking.

“Okay, okay,” he wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye. “I surrender. Your hair… it is a worthy opponent. More difficult than Shane Hollander.”

This is the highest compliment he knows.

He straightens up, studying you with a coach’s analytical eye. “This,” he declares, pointing at the lopsided mess on your head, “is not acceptable. You deserve better. We will go to a professional.”

“A professional braider?”

“Da. A master. We will find the best.” He already has his phone out. “We will learn.”

Finding “the best” involves more research than his last contract negotiation. He calls Svetlana, who shrieks with laughter and then texts him a list of highly-recommended salons in the city. He reads reviews aloud to you over breakfast. “’Tasha is a miracle worker with protective styles.’ Good. ‘My daughter’s braids lasted six weeks without frizz.’ Excellent. ‘Atmosphere is welcoming and warm.’ Very important.”

He settles on a place called “Crowns & Glory,” a salon in a vibrant part of the city he doesn’t usually frequent. That Saturday, he dresses not in his usual tailored casual wear, but in simple jeans and a plain black t-shirt, as if trying to blend in. He holds your hand tightly as you push the door open, a little bell jingling above you.

The salon is a burst of color and sound. R&B music plays softly. The air smells like coconut and shea butter. Several women are in various chairs, their heads in the skilled hands of stylists. Beautiful, intricate braids, twists, and locs are everywhere you look.

All conversation stops for a half-second as Ilya Rozanov, six-foot-three of notorious Russian hockey player, walks in with a small child. You feel his hand tighten minutely around yours.

A woman with braids that fall like a waterfall of silver and gold looks up from the front desk. Her name tag says “TASHA.” Her eyes flick from his uncertain face to yours, to the hand holding yours protectively. Her smile is immediate and warm, disarming the tension in the room.

“Well, hello there,” she says, her voice like honey. “You must be the appointment for the consultation. And this must be the lovely head of hair I’ve heard about.”

Papochka clears his throat. “Yes. I am Ilya. This is my daughter. She would like… braids. Two braids. But I…” He gestures vaguely, helplessly, at his own head. “I am not skilled.”

Tasha’s smile deepens. “That’s what we’re here for. Come on back, sweetheart. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

She leads you to her chair. Papochka follows, a silent shadow. He doesn’t sit in the empty waiting chair. He stands behind you, a sentinel, watching Tasha’s every move as she examines your hair type, its texture, its length. He listens intently as she explains the process, the products she’ll use, the time it will take. He asks questions, practical, detailed questions about maintenance, washing and sleeping.

“You’re a very involved papa,” Tasha remarks, sectioning your hair with a swift, practiced ease that makes Papochka’s eyes widen.

“I wish to learn,” he says simply. “To do it correctly.”

“Then pull up that stool,” she says, nodding to one nearby. “Best seat in the house.”

For the next two hours, Ilya Rozanov is the quietest you have ever seen him. He sits on that stool, his long legs folded awkwardly, his entire being focused on Tasha’s flying fingers. He doesn’t look at his phone. He doesn’t fidget. He watches the creation of the first braid from root to tip, his brow furrowed in concentration. He asks permission before he speaks.

“The tension… it is not too tight?”

“No, sir, just right. We don’t want to hurt those edges.”

“The product, this gel, it will not cause buildup?”

“Not this one. It’s water-soluble. See?”

He nods, filing the information away.

About halfway through, he pulls out his phone. You think he’s finally gotten bored. But instead of checking messages, he lifts it, points the camera at you, and clicks.

You make a face. “Papochka!”

“You look beautiful,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I am documenting.”

He doesn’t stop. As Tasha works her magic, transforming the wild cloud into two sleek, perfect, symmetrical braids that hang thick and smooth down your back, he takes pictures. He takes a picture of your serious face looking in the mirror. He takes a close-up of Tasha’s hands mid-braid. He takes a picture of the array of products on her station. He even, after asking softly, takes a picture of the finished back of your head, the parting straight as an arrow.

Tasha laughs, a light, musical sound. “You’re going to have a whole portfolio by the time we’re done.”

“Yes,” he says, utterly serious. “For reference.”

When it’s finished, Tasha spins you around to face the big mirror. You barely recognize yourself. The braids are flawless. They feel heavy and secure and wonderful. You shake your head gently, and they sway. You are Zarya from school. You are a princess. You are cool.

Your eyes are wide. You look up at Papochka in the mirror, standing behind you.

His expression steals the breath from your lungs. All the intensity, the fierce concentration, has melted away. In its place is something raw, open, and unbearably soft. His dark eyes are shining. There’s a slight tremble in his jaw as he looks at your reflection, at the joy on your face. He sees not just the braids, but your confidence, your happiness was something he would always provide, even if he needed a guide.

He places his large hands on your shoulders, meeting your gaze in the glass. “Solnyshko moya,” he whispers, his voice thick. My sunshine. “You are… stunning.”

He pays Tasha, tipping her an amount that makes her eyes bulge, and thanking her not just for the service, but for the lesson. He has a bag of the recommended products in hand and a business card tucked carefully into his wallet.

On the drive home, you can’t stop touching your braids. “They’re perfect, Papochka.”

“They are,” he agrees, his eyes on the road. A comfortable silence settles, before he says, “Next time… perhaps I can do the parting. And you can tell me if the sections are even.”

“You want to try again?”

“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I must learn. I have many pictures now. And Tasha said I can call with questions.” He glances at you, a flicker of his old, competitive spirit in his eyes. “It will not defeat me forever.”

That night, as he tucks you into bed, Hoot the owl tucked under one of your braids, he does something new. Instead of just kissing your forehead, he gently, so gently, touches the end of one of your braids, running the smooth tip between his fingers.

“Goodnight, my brave, beautiful girl,” he murmurs.

You drift off to sleep feeling the new weight of your hair, a weight that feels like love and safety and patience. Down the hall, in the living room’s blue glow, Ilya Rozanov is not watching game highlights. He is scrolling through the dozens of photos on his phone, a chronicle of the day his little sunshine got her braids. He zooms in on one, a picture of your beaming smile in Tasha’s chair, your eyes bright with excitement. He saves it, sets it as his lock screen.

Anyway, here are a few samples of my favourite natural hairstyles.