Chapter Text
"Sveta," Ilya said. "Sveta-Konfetka." He giggled. "Candy ... my Jane hates candy. Svetaaaaa. Svetik! Svetik, I want candy. Coke-flavoured. My Jane likes ginger-ale. My Jane will kill me if she sees me with coke-candy ... Svetaaa. Svetochka!" He did not notice that his face was turned to Svetlana's friend, Jaya, and not Svetlana, which was probably because his eyes were shut. He had a big grin on his face, but his eyes were rimmed with red and there was a blooming bruise on his cheek from a fight on the ice four hours earlier.
"Lana," Jaya said. "Lana, Svetlana, do we need to call him a car?" Svetlana downed another shot and grimaced.
"Ilya," she said, shoving at his shoulder. Ilya peeled his eyes open to see her.
"My Svetlana has big eyes, gorgeous eyes," he proclaimed affectionately. He smiled up at her. "I used to think they were ... what's the word? Sveta, Svetochka ... Konfetka ... ridiculous! Now if you blink, so pretty, I just want to be on you, Sveta, my Sveta."
My Sveta, Jaya mouthed. Svetlana pressed her lips together. "Anyone would be on you, really," Ilya said, fondly. "But I want Jane, my Jaaane, and your eyes are so big, and I can't have my Jane." Svetlana bit down on her lip. God, Ilya was coked the fuck out. He would never say this sober. She should not have encouraged him to come out. "And so now I have to settle for my Sveta!" Ilya said. Jaya raised a penciled eyebrow. "Sumasshedshiy! No one settles for my Svetlana," Ilya said, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the floor. "You would rip off his tiny dick. And I would kill him."
"Ilya," Svetlana said again.
"Ty zol?" he asked. Are you angry? She shook her head at him tiredly. Ilya frowned. "You don't call me Ilya unless you're angry, Sveta. Are you ... what is the word? By me? Ah ... fuck, I cannot remember the word."
"Exasperated," she said. Ilya blinked. Svetlana could see the thought on his face: oh, he had said that last part. Oops. Sveta sighed. "Ilya, get up." Ilya's frown deepened.
"It is so comfy on the floor, though." He brightened. "Sveta, come join me!" He had a silly grin on his face. Suddenly Svetlana had had enough. She hauled him up from the floor with strength she had not known she possessed.
"Jaya, I'll text you and Jolie and Maeve later," she shouted, dragging Ilya through the throngs of people. Everyone was lit in green and pink. Svetlana liked this club a lot; it had good lights and played good music, plus the DJ liked her and she could bribe him to play O-Zone when she dragged Ilya in. Seeing as there were bouncers coming towards them, she doubted she could come back here again. One of them, a big, muscly, bearded white man, came to stand in front of her, nodding towards Ilya. He opened his mouth, so Svetlana cut him off.
"My friend is really fucked up," she said. "Girlfriend broke up with him or something. We're leaving now, promise."
The man backed off.
"You lied to the bouncer," Ilya said when they were in the Uber. Svetlana had brought her own car with her, but she would not let Ilya throw up in it. He pointed an accusing finger at her, but it lost any real impact when his hand fell down limply. "Ya rasstalsya so svoyey Jane, Sveta, moy Jane, moy Jane. Me! I did it! Because I am—am idiot, stupid, do not know when to quit. My Jane, Sveta, I quit too early, and now never she will love me."
Svetlana raised an eyebrow. "Ilya, my God, you can't even say moya? You are too drunk. You have a game in a week, Ilya, I can't believe you did this."
"You told me," Ilya said, raising his head. "You said, Ilya, Ilyusha, this Jane girl chewed me up and spit me out. Ilya, let's go out and forget about Jane. Ilyushaaaa, come ooon, you haven't come out in ages. Ilyusha!"
"My voice is not so high,” Svetlana said. She turned her head away and looked out the window. It was pitch-black outside; they’d gone to the club almost straight after the game. Well, first Ilya had jumped on her and ate her out, then they’d fucked on the kitchen counter, then Ilya had showered, then they fucked again on his bed, and then, when they had been sitting on the couch watching tapes, she said, You were very happy today, and he replied, No, you just get all my attention now. When she asked why, he shrugged. My Jane, he replied. I, ah … we are done. No more.
Then she had said they should go out. And then he did a line of coke, and Svetlana raised a brow but didn’t say anything. Maeve was starstruck by meeting Ilya Rozanov, and then was a little bit put off by the speed at which he took shots. Jolie and Jaya were dancing around; whenever Svetlana went to join them, Ilya grabbed her wrist and said let me do a line off your tits, please, let me do a line off your tits, pleaseee, Sveta! Svetlana said I am not touching those bathrooms, and Ilya said, So boring. Don’t be boring, Sveta, I thought I wanted boring but boring will not have me ever again. She made him drink some water, and then he downed another shot and did another line. While he was distracted, she went and danced with Jaya and Jolie, until Maeve came by and said Um, Ilya Rozanov is, like, unconscious. Should I wake him up? Or call someone?
Then Ilya had vomited up all those words about Jane and Svetlana. Now they were in the car, and Svetlana knew with the certainty of a dying man that even with all those words—Svetochka, Sveta-Konfetka, my Sveta, you get all my attention now—she would not have all his attention. My Sveta has big eyes, gorgeous eyes. But not Jane’s eyes.
When they got out of the car, Ilya threw up. She knelt beside him as he did it and rubbed a hand over his back. She guided him away from the curb and pulled a napkin out of her purse to swipe at his face. He swiped at it with his hand instead, and she wrinkled her nose. "Ilya, disgusting."
"My Jane," Ilya said, bereft. "Sveta, do you love me?"
Svetlana sucked in a sharp breath, and rubbed her forehead. "Ilya, let's go in, please."
"My Jane, she does not love me," Ilya moaned. Svetlana bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. "Sveta, do you remember"—he coughed and retched bile, and Svetlana reached out in an aborted motion to place a hand on his back—"do you remember? When we were sixteen, and you got your fancy dance scholarship? And you said if you had to marry me to get me out of Moscow with you, you would?"
She remembered. She remembered very well, in fact. Ilya had been sporting a bruise on his eye from Alexei, and Sasha was preparing for Paris. Studying abroad. It was Ilya and Svetlana sitting on a park bench late at night smoking cigarettes. Ilya had just slept with Alexei's girlfriend, Sasha, and Svetlana, all in one night. Luckily Alexei had only caught him with the girlfriend.
Nu v samom dele! Ya okazal yemu uslugu! Ilya had complained, dragging a hand down the unblemished side of his face
Usluga, da, Svetlana had snorted. A favor, by sleeping with his brother's girlfriend. Vy dokazali, chto ona byla shlyukha, da? Well, it was a favor, of sorts. Alexei wouldn't want to be seen with a whore; he could barely stand seeing Svetlana on Ilya's arm.
Ilya had taken a long drag of his cigarette. It was a different brand than usual. Usually they smoked Donskoy Tabak, but this one was a different kind; she'd brought it from Boston. Cohiba. It had a smoother flavor, felt more refined.
Let's practice your English, Ilya said, out of nowhere. He waggled his eyebrows. You and your fancy—ah, sh-mancy?—dancing school ... Are you going to become the next Anna Pavlova?
Svetlana had rolled her eyes. Fancy-schmancy, she had corrected. Smoother that way. And anyway, all we have done the past year is talk about dance. I want to hear about hockey.
She had wanted to play hockey when she was a little girl. She'd been nothing special, certainly, but she'd been good at getting into the other girls's heads. They didn't like her because she was nice; they liked her because she was blunt and let the really good ones shine with their skill. They liked her because when she was on their team they won. She remembered a couple of girls from the peewee league, and she'd Googled their names before. Some of them were in the PWHL now.
She probably wouldn't have been with them, but it was a nice thought. Instead, she was standing next to her best friend while he threw up, and remembering when she had thought they would get married, remembering when she had offered to. Remembering when she had wanted to—wanted to play hockey, wanted to marry him, wanted him and hockey and dance and everything else there was.
Jaya and Jolie were convinced that Ilya was in love with Svetlana. Maeve saw her in the tabloids all the time. When she had first started out, so many of her sales had come from people who wanted to know what Ilya Rozanov's favorite girl looked like. If she was really worth it. She was Ilya's favorite, and she'd never really had to share him except occasionally with Sasha. And anyway, Ilya always came back to her. That night when Alexei had bruised the arch of his cheek, when Ilya had lost blood to Alexei's rough hands, she was the last one—not Alexei's whore girlfriend, and not Sasha.
It was shameful, how she had thought about it that night. But that fact remained: that Ilya always came back to her, even after everyone else. Even after Sasha. Even after Jane. My Jane, she does not love me. She had always thought to herself that this was enough—this thing they had. Perhaps Jane did the same. My Jane, she does not love me. Svetlana did. Svetlana loved him enough to pull him up off the asphalt.
"Get up," she said, tugging at his hair.
Hockey, hockey, hockey, Ilya had said. That's all anyone wants to hear about. Hockey. He rolled his eyes.
Svetlana had elbowed him in the side. You love hockey, she had said. You blew me off last week for it. The English flowed naturally from her mouth, which was a strange thing. In Boston, kids teased her for her accent; with Ilya, everything came naturally.
"Would you, still?" Ilya asked, turning his head. His eyes were reddened and there was a drop of sickly-yellow liquid at the corner of his pink mouth.
Ilya had groaned. I love hockey, he agreed. A drop of blood trickled out from his mouth and down his chin. Ilya grimaced and wiped it off. But I do not think I will ever be free of this. He held up his bloodstained hand. His thumb was bent out of shape; she remembered thinking that Alexei must have caught him off-guard. Svetlana had reached out and gently pushed it down to lie in the space between them.
Svetlana had never really had to share Ilya with anyone. She had step-siblings coming in and out of her life who she'd had to share with—her room, her food, her clothes, her friends, her laughter, her smiles. Never Ilya; not even with Sasha, not even with other girls. She would always know Ilya better than any of them. She would always be the first one and the last.
She'd always thought they were going to get married. The other guys, the brief exploration with Jaya's friend Yulia; Sasha and Jane and the freckled, dark-haired girls Ilya slept with—they didn't matter. She and Ilya lived in each other; they would always find their way back. They'd known each other forever, and Svetlana hadn't even needed to ask what this meant. It was Alexei, and Ilya's father, and Sasha's father, and her father, and all the boys who sent Ilya home from practice with a split lip and a wolfish grin that he put to good use on Svetlana. It was the blue eyeshadow in Irina's untouched and dusty room and the fur coat in the closet. It was the way Ilya slouched in his seat when he was with her or Sasha but kept his back straight at dinner with anyone else. It was the time that he had dialed with trembling fingers +1 (857) 555 7212 and she had begged her mother to take them home to Moscow because Irina Rozanova had had an accident.
It was all these things and his bruised face and his broken thumb. Svetlana grasped the wrist of his broken hand. He stared at her.
She would be going to dance school in the next two months, and leaving him. She had always spent two months and a week in Moscow with her father and with Ilya. That year it would be different; that year it would be eight weeks instead of nine. Only two months. Summer would be missing that last week.
If I have to marry you so that you will get out, I will, she said, with all the sincerity of Mother Teresa.
Ilya broke into laughter, pulling away. Sure, he said. He grinned, red blood spilling out of his mouth. I will live in Boston with you and be your pet hockey player.
Svetlana had frowned and rolled her eyes, but she did not say, I'm serious.
She realized that Ilya was still waiting for her response. She could have lied, and said yes, even though this was a shitty proposal. She could have deflected, looked away and said, I'm tired. Let's go to bed. But Ilya had said she does not love me. And Svetlana had never had to share Ilya before Jane. Love meant that Jane had known Ilya, too, and perhaps better than her to fuck Ilya over this badly. My Jane, she does not love me. The words rang in Svetlana's ears. She had imagined this faceless Jane too many times to count, and she did so again, staring at Ilya's face. He really did look so much like his mother. She imagined maybe Jane was blonde, the opposite of Ilya's type. No freckles. Poreless face. Long, straight hair. Big eyes. Maybe Ilya fucked all those freckled brunettes to get his head out of her ass.
"No," she said. Whispered, really. Her voice came out thin and papery. Ilya's mouth was slightly parted, trembling. Svetlana imagined him blowing away in the wind, all two-hundred something pounds of him, light as a flower. Ilya doubled over to retch into the street again. Svetlana kept her arms to herself.
When he got up, Svetlana handed him a napkin. "Here." Ilya took it and wiped his face. "Let's go back inside," Svetlana said. She hesitated, then held out a hand. As kids Ilya had followed her around everywhere.
Ilya didn't take her hand. Svetlana pressed her lips together, feeling the swell of hurt rise within her, and then she turned to go into the house. After a moment, she heard Ilya's shoes against the pavement. She turned the key in the door and held it open for him.
She didn't wash her face that night, and Ilya didn't climb into bed with her.
"Jane," Svetlana murmured once she heard the click of the guest room door being shut, just to feel the name in her mouth. I hate you, Jane, she thought, with surprising conviction. She said it aloud. "Jane, ya tebya nenavizhu." The swell of hurt rose up again with the words. Svetlana closed her hand over her mouth to muffle her cries. "Ya tebya nenavizhu—ya tebya nena—nenavizhu, Jane, ya—ya tebya nenavizhu." Every word was punctuated by a sob. She closed her eyes, and tightened the hand over her mouth. She didn't want Ilya to hear.
"He ended it," Shane said, staring at the TV. On it was an advertisement for that year's newest Porsche in the ugliest shade of highlighter orange that Rose had ever seen. A man stepped out of the car; curly-haired, blue-eyed. He had a sculpted face and a tiny waist. He was also wearing a god-awful leopard-print tracksuit to go with his hideous car. Rose had definitely seen Ilya Rozanov in an outfit like this, in a car like that, in real life, and not for any ironic reason. Rose looked at Shane, back at the ad, back at Shane, and decided she should turn his face away from the screen.
"These things happen, babe," Rose said, taking Shane's face by the chin. He had a thousand-yard stare on him, which was kind of freaking Rose out. He'd had the same kind of look when she asked him if he'd ever been with another man. He looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown, which Rose supposed was fair. When she'd gotten his call—Rose, Rose, he broke up with me, Rose, I don't know—Rose—she'd expected more tears, but she probably should've expected more this.
She'd had a lot of gay boyfriends. They were all very different from Shane.
"He told me I was beautiful, Rose," Shane said, staring at some point behind her.
"Men say that all the time?" Rose tried. She didn't like how her voice rose higher at the end, making the reassurance a question. Shane didn't seem like the kind of person who would be comforted by awkwardness. Granted, she didn't know anyone who would be.
"He said he likes my freckles," Shane said. Rose bit her lip. She'd seen Ilya Rozanov in the papers with a freckled brunette more times than she could count, but she figured saying Honey, that man is a manwhore would not be welcomed. "Said I was stunning, that I took his breath away," Shane continued. He swallowed. "I was gonna ask him—ask him to be—for it to be—" He paused, his bottom lip trembling. "I was gonna ask him for this to be real."
Rose winced. "I'm sorry," she said. Should she offer tequila? This was usually when she offered drinks. She had tequila in her bag. The good stuff she kept for herself after yet another gay boyfriend heartbreak. She'd finished her stash after breaking up with Shane, so she'd had to do a refill of it, and she'd brought about a quarter of it. Which was three bottles of various shit.
"I just don't understand," Shane said blankly. "I was gonna invite him here. I did invite him here." His gaze snapped to Rose all of a sudden. "He said he didn't love Svetlana."
Rose knew that name vaguely, she felt, but not enough to be wowed by that declaration of loyalty. "Uh."
"I asked him. He said he didn't love Svetlana, said he jacks off to me. Said he likes my freckles and that I take his breath away, and that I'm stunning. People say that when they're in love. Don't they?" Shane was staring straight at her, looking into her eyes. Jesus. How did anyone even break up with those eyes?
"I mean ..." Rose hesitated, and bit back the words she wanted to say. People lie. Well, that was obvious. "He's an asshole," she said. That was the next thing. Also obvious. Fuck.
"He's not," Shane snapped, pulling away from her hand. It was the most emotion he'd shown the entire time. Suddenly, he went rigid, as if he'd said something he wasn't supposed to say.
"Um," Rose said. Shane's eyes were very wide. Rose swallowed. OK. Shane had probably heard all his life about what an asshole Ilya Rozanov. Rose, on the outskirts of hockey, had heard all about what an asshole Ilya Rozanov was. Her brothers told her all about what an asshole Ilya Rozanov was. Maybe that wasn't the right approach. She put a gentle hand on Shane's thigh, reaching out slowly, as if to comfort a wild animal. "So ... tell me about him?"
"He's not an asshole," Shane said immediately. He hunched in on himself, looking down. "He's not. He's actually—he's actually really—" Shane sniffled, and swiped at his face. There was something child-like about it. "He always takes care. Of me. During—um, during sex. Just. Whenever we're together. Which is usually for sex." He looked up at her. "Sorry. I'm not really. Really used to talking about it. Like this."
Rose's heart swelled. Jesus, this was breaking her heart. "It's OK. You can tell me anything you want to."
Shane's mouth did a weird little shy half-smile. "Well, um, he—usually, after sex, he, uh, we hold each other, and it's. It's really nice. I liked, um, I liked having him in my arms because it was like, we were ... like it was—real, you know?"
Rose nodded. Shane nodded back, his shy smile growing. "He's not an asshole. All the time. Really." His smile wobbled. "I wanted my parents to love him," Shane said, waveringly. "I wanted them to meet him. And love him. Because—because he—I—" Shane pressed his lips together. "I really liked him, Rose." He licked his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. A single tear trickled out of his eyes, and Rose reached out with her other hand to swipe it away. Shane let her.
Shane was really beautiful. And nice. And gay, Rose reminded herself. God, he had been such a shitty boyfriend when they weren't together. On dates, he was the perfect gentleman. On the couch, he ran his fingers through her hair. Over text they barely spoke. Rose had wondered if he forgot about her when she wasn't there, if he was like a baby with object impermanence. Now she remembered those nights with his fingers in her hair and wondered if he had pretended it was Ilya.
Anyway. Shane was hot, and he brought her coffee when they met up, memorized her breakfast order after the third date, and he had brought her roses, one time when she was filming in Montreal, which was kind of uncreative because her favorite flowers were carnations, but it was the thought that counted. Because he gushed over her performance on set and said he loved how she did this. And that. And proved he had been paying attention the whole time.
He didn't deserve to be sitting here crying over some guy who had broken up with him because he didn't know what he had. Even if he was a shitty boyfriend to her sometimes, because he wasn't all the time. He was really great. When they were together.
He'd been about to say Because I love him. Rose knew it. Jesus, he couldn't even say it. The way he had went straitlaced when he snapped He's not an asshole. Because that was all it was to everyone else.
Well, Ilya Rozanov may not have been an asshole, but he didn't know Shane, clearly. She couldn't imagine having Shane in your arms and then the next day just giving him up like that. (Except she could. And she wondered. Why would he do that? Why would anyone do that?)
Rose sniffled. "I'm sorry, Shane," she said. Her heart literally felt like it was aching for him. God. She'd really liked Shane. She really liked Shane. He didn't deserve this.
Shane opened his eyes, which were lined by red. "Rose," he began. He sniffed. "Rose, I don't know what to do." Then he burst into tears.
Rose couldn't help herself. She pulled him into a hug. "It's OK," she said. "It's gonna be OK, Shane." She smoothed her hand over his short hair. The fine strands at the nape of his neck were spiky. Rose noted that he must have gotten a haircut. Shane cried loudly, with tearing screams that sounded like they had been ripped straight out of him.
"It's not fair," he said, muffled, into her sweater. "It's not fair, Rose."
"I know," she murmured. "Oh, Shane. I know."
When he finally came up for air, his face was all red and blotchy. He cleared his throat, rubbing away any remaining tears in his eyes. Rose watched him do it.
"What do you usually do," he started, and stopped, closing his mouth. He opened his mouth again, and closed it. "God. What ... you said ..." He cleared his throat again, embarrassed. "Um."
Rose cocked her head, confused. "What do you—oh." He wanted to know what she did after a breakup. "Uh. Usually I get blackout drunk and curse ... whoever. And then in the morning the hangover is so killer I can't focus on anything but the pain." She cleared her own throat. "But, uh, I don't know if that's ... really good for you."
"You brought alcohol, though," Shane said. Rose pursed her lips.
"I don't know. I sort of panicked. I usually get called over for the alcohol," she said. Because she got broken up with so often. For other men. Or she broke up with them. For themselves.
"All I can think about is him," Shane said quietly. Rose wilted.
"I'll get the tequila," she said. Shane nodded and looked away.