Chapter Text
Ilya sat down on the bench, reaching to tie his skates in a tight knot. He was in charge of the music this week, so Bad Bunny blasted through the speakers as he got up to give another speech. He had realized that these degenerate TED Talks were exactly what his teammates needed to win—proven by the fact that they’d won more games since he started doing them.
“Listen up motherfuckers, you know the drill! I don’t have to lick your asses for you to play nice, yes? So next time you want to slip on the fucking ice like a fucking rookie—” he pointed at one player, flipped him off, continued grinning, “—remember we have people watching on the sides, at home. And you don’t want to be losers for them!! So let’s go!!”
In full honesty, Ilya had stopped feeling much towards winning, and maybe hockey in general, at this point. But it was the only thing he had learned, and he was good at it. Besides, he carried his career around as if it was his legacy. Every cup he won, he imagined his mother still cheering for him on the sidelines, like she had at every hockey practice when he was a child.
He was born into not having options about his future at all. A soldier or a policeman, his father had said. These are what men do. You will too.
He bit into his tongue out of anger. In cold old Russia, the ice rink seemed comforting—less freezing than the usual snow, and in some strange way soothing as he glided onto it. Falling down had hurt a little, but he never gave up. Becoming an ice skater was what he aimed for, like his mother. Hockey was the only option he could choose. Again, because that was for men.
So he built up the rage and anger he had towards these people and let it out on his rivals, and he continued doing so. Even now, at the age of thirty-one—as he had lost interest years ago—the rage still sat heavy on his heart.
The things he could have changed. He was twelve. If he had more courage, like he had now, knocking down everyone that stood a chance to steal the puck. He was twelve. Just… maybe… just, just, just— His vision went blurry as he felt the cold surface against his body. The soothing ice felt like it was melting against him as he tried to get up, losing his grip soon enough on one arm. From the pain, broken, he thought. He had knowledge of broken bones; being on the ice for years taught him that.
The medics rushed to his side, turning him over as he managed to tell them he was fine, but they looked at him like he was a madman. He didn’t understand it at first, then glanced at his arm and saw a damp patch of blood on the fabric right above his forearm. Probably a cut caused by the ice, he thought. He tasted blood in his mouth—must’ve hit the cage. He knew there wouldn’t be any games to play soon, which meant his teammates losing.
Shane was focused on the big screen at home. He had gotten curious after Hayden’s words and searched for Ilya on the internet. Then he realized he had been living across from a hockey star—a legend, according to the articles.
Now he was watching the game. Ilya was fast on the ice, pushing through their rivals, when suddenly he fell.
Shane stood up in surprise. The fall looked painful, and then there was blood on the screen. The medics swept him off the ice and it cut to commercials. Shane sat back down, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He remembered talking to Ilya. The idea of him probably being alone played tricks on his mind. He hated the thought of being sick and not being cared for. Thankfully, he had his family, who would even fly in if he felt slightly unwell. He couldn’t help but think about how alone Ilya was, and that made him feel lonely too.
Irina was curled into a ball near his leg. He brushed her dark brown hair, searching for comfort. He wasn’t alone as long as he had Irina.
He couldn’t help but wish that Ilya was fine. He probably was used to this as an athlete, wasn’t he? So he dug further. Broken collarbone, concussion, ripped muscle, injured ribs… the list went on and on until he found himself in a rabbit hole. He learned his father had passed away four years ago, no further information. Mother passed away—year unknown. A big brother still alive. Shane felt like he was looking into things he shouldn’t be, so he closed the tab on his laptop and opened his work to continue writing.
They told him he’d be out of the hospital once the meds wore off—nothing serious, just a fracture. One of his teammates came in, someone he considered close, but not quite in a family way—if that even made sense. In hockey, they threw around words like brothers and family a lot, but he’d never fully felt that way about the team. There were a few guys he was close with, but not close enough to open up about everything. That was probably why he felt like this. “Are you okay, Roz?” the other said, standing beside him.
“Not dead yet,” Ilya smiled. He noticed Marlow had brought his family along, which meant he’d come straight from the stadium.
“You lost, didn’t you?” Ilya asked.
Of course they did.
Shane was contemplating again. For the fifth time, he went back and forth as Irina watched him move. It was a wonder she wasn’t running beside him, counting a four-year-old’s hyperactivity. “Dad, did something happen?” He stopped, looking at her. He realized he’d been moving so much that even his daughter noticed. The little one held his face between her hands, looking at him with questioning eyes, her pupils growing wider. “No, angel. Dad is just thinking about work,” he lied. Minutes later, he stood at Ilya’s door, trying not to make noise as he knocked once. Irina was thrilled to see him again; he loved how loving his daughter was. Ilya opened the door, scrunching his eyes at the brightness as he stepped out from a darker space. His arm was in a sling, hung around his neck, his lip slightly bruised, his hair messy like he’d just been sleeping.
“I’m sorry if we woke you up…” Shane didn’t know what to say, so he added, “My friend Hayden—he’s a big hockey fan—told me you had an accident, so I just wanted to see if you needed anything.” Ilya smiled, though it wasn’t fully there, pain still visible. “I—I mean, if you need to sleep, you can go back. You can knock—” “It’s okay, Shane,” Ilya said, panic written all over his face. “Thank you for coming. Really.”
Irina pointed at the sling. “Does it hurt, Ilya?” Her eyes were wide as she pouted. Ilya brushed her cheek with his free hand. “No, principessa. I’m fine.” He looked up at Shane. “We are right across your room…” That sounded funny, so he laughed. “I mean, literally.” Now Ilya joined him. Irina peeked inside the apartment, curiosity getting the best of her—it looked dark in there. But Ilya wasn’t in the state to notice much, so they went back and he closed the door, slowly making his way to the couch near it.
“Dad, can we make him the magic soup?” Shane smiled at her. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he had a daughter like this.
“What is that, darling?” “Grandma told me it can heal everything!” That sounded exactly like his mother. He remembered the soups he’d had as a kid—last time only two years ago. He’d written it down as the worst cold he’d ever had, lasting two weeks. Probably exhaustion, mental and physical. So they did.
At a reasonable time, they knocked again. Ilya hadn’t. Shane knew he might’ve been sleeping, but he also knew he’d need meds. Being sick and alone was a nightmare—at least to Shane. Unless Ilya pushed them away, he wouldn’t stop. Ilya let them in, tugging at the curtains to let some light in. “Not a big fan of light, are you?” Shane joked—then immediately realized the concussion possibility. He felt stupid.
“Yeah,” Ilya smiled. “It’s exhausting.” He sat back on the couch as Irina sat beside him, hugging his healthy arm.
“I’ll warm this up for you. You haven’t eaten yet, did you?” He nodded, then regretted it seconds later as sharp pain hit his head. He winced, hand curling into a fist, eyes squeezing shut.
“No,” he managed under his breath. Shane looked worried but went to the kitchen. Since it was attached to the living room, he could still see them. Irina spoke quietly now, like Shane told her, and it looked like she kept Ilya good company. He reacted to her stories.
By the time Shane brought the soup, she was explaining one of the cartoons they watched. “Yes, and they looked like Mister Snoopy.” “Thank you,” Ilya said, turning back to her. He set the tray down, then remembered his meds. As he tried to stand, Shane stopped him with an outstretched hand. “What do you need?” “Painkillers. But I can get them—my legs are okay.” “Where are they?” Shane’s tone made him sit back. He pointed to the bedroom. The counter.
Shane handed them over with a glass of water. Something felt different inside Ilya. Warmth. Something he hadn’t felt in years. He swallowed it down with the pill. If it weren’t for Shane, he would’ve slept all day. The warmth grew as he tasted the food they’d made together. As if reading minds, Irina asked, “We made it together. Is it yummy?”
She leaned against Shane’s shoulder. It caused Ilya a bit of pain, but he didn’t complain. “Yes, princess.” He looked at Shane, sitting just centimeters away. The way his eyes waited gave him away. “Your dad is a good chef.” Shane smiled, satisfied. Food, like most things, was complicated at first—but he loved cooking for people he cared about.
Did that mean he cared for Ilya?
“Shane?..... Shane?” He snapped back as both of them looked at him. He smiled when Ilya asked if he was okay. Not much of a big surprise—they kept going back and forth to Ilya’s. It was an escape for Shane, something he rarely allowed. This time there was a reason. Their neighbour needed care. And Ilya loved Irina. She loved him back. By week two, he gave them a spare key. Shane worried they were bothersome, but Ilya assured him otherwise, squeezing his hand.
His place felt liveable. Drawings on the fridge. Healthy food. A Barbie blanket. A Snoopy plushie Irina picked so he wouldn’t be alone at night. She wanted a sleepover. Shane said no. Concussions and four-year-olds didn’t mix. She watched his games. Asked if he was hurt. By the end of the day, his arm was covered in cartoon band-aids. At thirty, it felt like a blessing. A small family. He told himself it was pity. He laughed as Irina mocked his accent. Masha and the Bear played in Russian. She hummed along.
He was better now. Sling gone. He didn’t want to be.
He wished it would last forever.
And for the first time in a long time—
Ilya felt just… happy.