Chapter Text
A week, some five-odd matcha lattes, and about a hundred micro-interactions later, Ilya finds himself in the unlikeliest of places: a packed grandstand overlooking a surprisingly well-kept high school hockey rink.
It’s not really a shock to learn that Shane coaches for some bougie ass school. That, at least, feels more like an inevitability than a revelation.
No, the shock is that Ilya is here at all.
Shane hadn’t even invited him. The invitation had come from Rose, who had said it came from Shane – but did it really? Ilya’s agonized over it for about four days at this point.
All that agonizing had led him here, to the stands that are filled with more people than seats, where he’s crushed between Svetlana and the father of a player.
Or, at least, Ilya assumes the man next to him is the father of a player. He has not asked, but between the jersey the man has squeezed over his puffer jacket and the paint covering every square inch of his face, surely this is not some random dude off the street.
The player on the ice with a matching jersey is uninspiring, to say the least. Ilya has yet to see him even attempt to do something worthy of that level of enthusiasm.
Something like cognitive dissonance wracks Ilya’s brain. Before his father had died, he was moderately obsessed with Ilya’s hockey career. It was the only thing they could ever bond over, and even then, it caused more strain in their relationship than it ever solved anything.
Even so, Ilya couldn’t imagine his father ever displaying that kind of support. Never in a million years, even when Ilya was playing above his level and getting serious attention for it.
In all honesty, Ilya’s not even sure that would be something he ever wanted. Especially in high school, it’s more likely that any elevated level of enthusiasm would have embarrassed the fuck out of him, and he probably would have bitched to his friends more – rather than less – if his father had broken out the face paint for his hockey games.
It had sucked pretty badly to grow up with his father in the way that he had. He wonders if watching your dad sweat yellow and blue paint off his face at a high school state championship quarter-finals game also sucks pretty badly.
The man sitting next to him claps three times, so loudly that Ilya flinches each time, and he wonders if it would have been a better call to stay home.
Even outside of face-paint-guy, the game – if that’s what you want to call it – sucks a little bit. Or, maybe, a lot of a bit.
Once again, Ilya wonders what the fuck he is doing here. Shane has been a fixture at the coffee shop, coming in every day before the morning rush and requesting a latte from Ilya specifically. Every morning, they exchange more and more conversation, working their way slowly to something that could resemble a full-fledged conversation. They had even talked about hockey once, in passing, and this game hadn’t come up, and Ilya’s not sure if Shane even wants him here.
Sure, Shane probably wouldn’t hate to see some extra support in a general sense, but he might not care if Ilya specifically is here or not.
Which, that would fucking suck.
So, here he is, watching some shitty hockey at the expense of most of his dignity and all of his sanity. He’s one morose thought away from asking the guy next to him if he has any extra facepaint to share – what is an ego death if not complete?
“Oh!” Rose says, sitting up in her seat. “That was so close!”
It was not, in fact, close at all.
In the first period of the game, Ilya had come to learn two things about Rose:
- She knows more about hockey than Ilya would expect. It’s still a lot less than him or Svetlana, but she can hold her own.
- She’s highly overexcitable, and even though she understands hockey, she’ll get excited any and every time the puck is in the general vicinity of the goal, regardless of the likelihood of the team scoring a goal.
Maybe Ilya isn’t giving Rose enough credit. Maybe she has been to more of these types of hockey games than she has let on, and she knows that false enthusiasm is her only hope of survival.
He definitely should have known something was up when Jackie very suddenly fell violently ill and couldn’t make the game. Clearly, she knew something as well.
Shane’s team appears to be very good by high school hockey standards. Not only have they made the playoffs, but they are holding their own against the other team. They also have the home-field advantage in a playoff game, something that’s usually awarded to the better team, so clearly they are above average.
By just about every other possible standard, the team sucks. Their terrible gameplay is only rivaled by the other team’s even more terrible gameplay.
If Ilya has to watch another player pass the puck directly to the other team, he’s going to start screaming very, very loudly.
“Number 12,” Svetlana says, her tone tight. “He is good.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, side-eyeing her.
In all their many years of friendship, Ilya has never known her to be an optimist. She’s also a proud hockey snob, more so than any other single person Ilya has ever met. Ilya has no earthly idea why the fuck she’s searching for the bright side now of all times, but he decides it probably has to do with the girl sitting next to her, and he lets her have it.
Either way, she’s right. While just about every other person on the ice seems to be grasping blindly at the concept of the sport of hockey, number 12 actually seems to know what is going on, and that small difference is currently allowing him to dominate the game. In fact, if Ilya had to bet, he’s pretty sure that’s the exact reason this team is in the playoffs at all. It might be the reason they win it all, too, if Shane’s lucky enough.
The other team probably has a more well-rounded roster, but they are lacking some of the organization that makes Shane’s team run like a well-oiled machine, and there’s no star player driving everyone else forward.
It’s a shame. It could have been almost fun to watch two evenly matched teams.
Number 12 gets passed the puck – from his own team this time, which is different from the last 7 or 8 times – and skates past the defensemen as he makes a break for the goal. Not only is Number 12 more talented than everyone else, he’s also faster, and it’s only him and the goalie on that side of the ice.
Unfortunately, he pulls up a second too early, and when he goes for the shot, it’s off the mark, hitting the goalie’s leg. The other bench goes wild, almost as if their goalie did anything other than stand there and literally not move.
No, their goalie is far from something special, and that miss was a mistake on Number 12’s part. It’s one of the few mistakes Ilya’s seen him make – and repeat – today.
Svetlana purses her lips. “If he kept driving to the net…”
“He should have made that goal,” Ilya finishes, watching Number 12 skate to the bench to talk with Shane.
Shane is dressed up in a suit, his thumbs hooked in his pockets until he starts gesturing with his hands.
For his own sanity, Ilya has been trying to pay as little attention as possible to him. So far, it has not been successful, but Ilya’s sure his luck will change soon.
Number 12 nods, adjusting his helmet, and Shane claps him on the back before he skates away.
“What is Shane teaching these boys?” Ilya jokes, only peripherally aware that he actually spoke out loud until Svetlana turns to him with an expectant smile.
For a long few moments, Svetlana just watches him, her smile growing. Ilya keeps his eyes firmly locked on the ice. The last thing he needs is to give her any more ammo – surely by now, Svetlana must be aware she has a fully loaded clip.
There’s another shot on goal that has Rose practically bouncing out of her seat before Svetlana says, faux-nonchalance coloring her tone, “We got a new order of matcha today.”
“Hmm, yes,” Ilya mutters, already hating where this is going. “You asked me for a favor, and I am a good friend. You are welcome for doing your job for you.”
“Ceremonial grade matcha,” Svetlana muses as though Ilya had said nothing at all. “Very fancy. Twice as expensive.”
“Is what was available.”
“Hmm.”
“And ceremonial grade – this is the best stuff.”
“Oh,” Svetlana says. “I am sure. Did Karen tell you this?”
Svetlana must have developed the power of laser vision, because Ilya feels his face heat up.
Last week, Ilya had left a comment on the infamous matcha latte blog post – the Scene Of The Crime, as he now likes to call it – and Karen, the blogger, had responded to him. He may have asked a few follow-up questions, and perhaps they now have some sort of correspondence going.
Honestly, who could blame him? He had somehow lured this pretty guy with beautiful freckles into his fucking trap with mid-tier matcha lattes – if he’s going to stand any chance of keeping him around, he’s got to up his game. So far, it’s been working wonders, and Karen has hyper-specific opinions about matcha powders. Thankfully, their supplier had one she approved of, even if it doubled their weekly matcha budget. Since Svetlana had asked him to do her job – again – he figured he had the right to make executive decisions, so he added it to the order.
With a gun to his head, Ilya would deny the fact that he’s at least a little excited for Monday morning, but the truth is that he’s really looking forward to Shane’s reaction.
Maybe Shane won’t be able to tell the difference at all, but Karen had promised that the ceremonial grade matcha will be way less bitter, and Ilya can only imagine that being a net-positive for Shane’s boring-ass drink. It’s not like bitter matcha will have many flavor-rivals in that cup.
“Karen says this is a good brand. Good for business.”
Svetlana’s eyebrows attempt to evacuate her forehead. “There is one customer that orders matcha lattes.”
“He is very consistent.”
Svetlana agrees with a tilt of her head. “He is. I am not sure this has anything to do with matcha.”
“I remember something else in this order, yes?” Ilya says, immediately changing the subject. “Very fancy cold brew machine. Expensive also.”
Ilya mimes tapping his chin, then turns to Svetlana and immediately realizes he made a mistake. She looks entirely too pleased with herself, smiling like she cracked open the case.
“Good for business,” she says, mocking his tone.
Well, two can play at that game. “There is one customer that orders cold brew.”
Factually, it’s completely untrue. In actuality, cold brew is the number one seller in their coffee shop, and Rose is one of many. That doesn’t really matter to Ilya, though, because his point stands.
It doesn’t look like it matters to Svetlana, either, because her smile widens, and Ilya starts bracing for impact before she’s even speaking.
“Yes. I am fucking that customer. Is there something you would like to share?”
Well, unfortunately, that’s one hell of an argument.
At a certain point, Ilya realizes it’s stupid to keep all of this from Svetlana. Not only is she a loyal best friend, but she’s also very clearly already clued into his emotional turmoil. It might be easier to handle all of this if he just opened his fucking mouth and started talking, but something stops him every time.
He’s never really had a hard time talking to Svetlana before. She’s seen him through the worst times in his life, and some of the best. It’s unusual for him to keep something from her, but something about this … whatever he’s got going on with Shane feels too fragile. It’s like a bruise, and every time he thinks about it too much, it’s like he’s poking at it. It hurts, and it’s ugly, and Ilya just wants everyone – including himself – to leave it alone, but that feels more and more impossible every time Shane steps into the coffee shop.
He doesn’t even know what they are doing, or if Shane is even aware that they are doing something.
Ilya turns away from Svetlana, looking back at the ice. “No,” he says, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees.
The stands around them go crazy as Number 12 gets his stick on the puck again. It’s not a clean breakaway like last time, but Rose and half the parents are leaping out of their seats anyway.
This time, when Number 12 gets nearer to the goal, he keeps his head down and dives in. As he shoots, the puck nails the bottom corner of the goal, avoiding the goalie's stationary leg this time.
In celebration, Number 12 is slammed into the boards by his less talented teammates, and the stands around Ilya go buck-wild. Ilya’s actually fairly certain the entire building shakes, calling its structural integrity into question.
Rose turns to both of them as they reluctantly stand to join the celebration, clapping her hands. “Low cheddar, am I right?”
Svetlana looks at her adoringly. “Something like this, yes.” When she turns around, Svetlana’s expression morphs, and she levels her eyes at Ilya. “When you are ready, we will actually talk.”
It’s not an offer, and it’s not really a warning, either – it’s a directive, and Ilya knows he’s not getting out of it.
*
It comes as no surprise to Ilya that he ends up being extremely correct about the outcome of the game. Number 12 manages to scrape together enough luck and adequate stick handling to lead his team to a messy but nonetheless decisive victory.
He is, at least partially, surprised at how gracious the player is in sharing his glory with his plethora of less talented teammates. He makes the game-winning goal, and when the rest of his team swarms him at the buzzer, skating at top speed and slamming him into the boards in celebration, he returns that excitement tenfold. He claps his teammates on the shoulders, knocks his helmet against the goalie’s, then gets dogpiled by nearly the entire bench, and laughs the whole way through.
Ilya finds himself nostalgic for something he’s not sure he’s ever had.
Then, his bestie Face Paint Father makes a commendable effort at causing permanent, catastrophic damage to his vocal cords, and Ilya’s very, very certain he’s never had something like this.
For better or for worse.
Apparently, dogpiling the star player after winning the quarterfinals is not something Shane expressly approves of, because he marches on the ice in his dress shoes and starts pulling the boys up off the ice. He’s far away, but Ilya can tell by his general demeanor that he’s trying and failing to be stern.
It’s hard to pretend to be stern while also cheesing like a fucking idiot. His megawatt smile would likely be visible from outer space, and certainly from the stands.
And, like, so what if that smile is kind of contagious and Ilya finds himself grinning like a fucking idiot, too? That’s, like, the basics of human socialization, probably.
There’s a painful tugging in Ilya’s stomach as he watches Shane pull every kid up off the ice and clap them on the back. There are a few who take the opportunity to hug him – Number 12 is even bold enough to mess with his hair, and the two of them are the last ones off the ice. Ilya hadn’t seen a single player on Shane’s team leave the ice without a smile on his face. The win is probably a fairly obvious reason for that, but Ilya thinks it might go even deeper than that.
Once the ice is empty and the quiet that follows a celebration settles over the rink, Ilya has no idea what to make of himself.
For the vast majority of the hockey games he’s been to in his life, he’s been on the ice. Since his time as an athlete, he’s gone to a few professional games, but he’s never been a guest at any game, and especially not a guest of the coach.
Which, to be completely fair, he’s not sure he technically qualifies as a guest of the coach even now, given that his invitation came from Rose. So, that complicates things.
The masses of parents and students are slowly filing out of the stands, but Rose and Svetlana have yet to move. Rose is typing furiously on her phone, and Svetlana’s staring at her like that’s the most interesting thing that has happened in the world in the last week.
Ilya’s never seen Svetlana besotted before. If he’s being completely honest, he’s not sure it’s something he would have thought her capable of. He’d be happy for her – for both of them – if they weren’t, both individually and as a pair, the biggest thorns in his side.
And, besides, the whole heart eyes thing that Sveltana has going on kind of leaves Ilya alone with his own thoughts – famously something that ends really well.
Would it be weird for Ilya to try to find Shane to congratulate him? Probably, yes. Would it be weirder for him to leave now and pretend that he had been attending a random high school game for no reason?
Yeah, definitely.
If Rose and Svetlana weren’t with him – well, first of all, that would be, like ten-thousand times weirder than all the other weird possibilities combined, but at least he’d have a half-chance of completely blowing this all off. Like, he could head out to his car and assume no one had recognized him and not breathe a sigh of relief until Monday morning, when (hopefully) Shane walks in the front door, completely unaware that Ilya spent several hours ogling him and his suit from behind the student section at a high school hockey game.
Good god. Maybe if Ilya gets out of here fast enough, he can gaslight Rose and Svetlana into forgetting he was ever with them.
He decides to risk it and make a break for it, just as Rose looks up from her phone and smiles widely.
“Alright, we’re all set!”
She starts marching down the stairs, heading towards the exit, fully expecting the two of them to follow her.
“All set?” Ilya asks, even as he does exactly as she expects and follows close behind her. “All set for what?”
“He had to handle some things, but he’ll be free soon,” Rose says dismissively, waving her hand as they walk into the crowd lobby.
“He? Who is he? Shane?” Ilya says. Rose isn’t paying much attention to him, mostly just nodding as she scans the many doors around the lobby, but it’s still enough of a confirmation for Ilya to fully enter fight or flight.
He’s halfway to flight when Svetlana grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket, yanking him to follow Rose before he can make a break for the door. She gives him a look like she can read his mind.
In a last-ditch effort to maintain what’s left of his dignity, he gives her a look like she’s insane. She raises her eyebrows, and Ilya realizes why an attempt at gaslighting her would never work – she reads him like a picture book.
Fuck.
Rose has taken off at a fast clip, heading across the lobby and the sea of remaining parents and students towards a door that says staff only, do not enter.
Apparently, a drama teacher is legally considered staff at high school hockey rinks, because Rose bumps the door open with her hip.
“I think we’ll be able to get him out to celebrate tonight,” Rose says, staring down at her phone again as she takes off down a long hallway, once again assuming that they are following her. “He’ll play a little hard to get, but Ilya can just work his magic to get him to agree.”
“Magic? What is this –” Ilya jogs to keep up with Rose. “I do not do magic.”
Rose rolls her eyes, then gives Svetlana a look like they are both in on some inside joke. If Ilya weren’t currently preoccupied with speed-walking to keep up with Rose, he’d pause to take some time and rip out every individual hair on his head.
There’s a sudden sharp left that surprises Ilya – so much so that he nearly runs directly into Rose – and then he finds himself in front of the locker rooms and what he assumes to be the coach’s office.
It’s a safe assumption, given that the office is entirely made of large glass windows, and Shane is sitting at a desk, leaning back as he discusses something with two guys seated across from him. He’s swiveling back and forth in his chair, playing with a pen, and occasionally talking with his hands.
Ilya’s last chance to make a clean getaway comes and goes as Shane looks over and catches sight of the three of them. Subtly, he throws his hand up in a wave, locks eyes with Ilya, then turns back to the conversation at hand.
“I think they are scouts,” Rose said, turning towards both Ilya and Svetlana, keeping her voice down. “Shane’s fucking psyched.”
Ilya looks quickly back at Shane’s office and finds Shane already looking at him. They lock eyes for a millisecond, and then Shane turns back to the men across from him.
Ilya reluctantly turns to look at them, too, and distantly recognizes the college logo on their quarter zips.
“Hey, Miss Landry!”
The three of them turn to see a boy exiting the locker room, his hair damp and a hockey bag hiked up on his shoulder. He’s grinning wide, and a second boy follows behind him.
“Hey, Will. Great game!” Rose says, pumping her fist in the air.
“Did you see my goal?” The second boy asks, bouncing on his feet. He’s the shorter of the two, and Ilya thinks he might have been one of the less terrible players on the team.
“Of course!” Rose says. “The goalie didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hell yeah!” The shorter boy says, as both of them start heading for a set of double doors that Shane assumes lead to the parking lot. “We’ll see you on Monday, Miss Landry!”
“Drive safe!” she calls after them, then turns to both Svetlana and Ilya and explains, “They are both in my theater class.”
Something about that surprises Ilya, but he doesn’t voice it. American high schools have always confused him.
A few more boys file out of the locker room, talking loudly to each other. Most of them acknowledge Rose with a wave or a greeting, and she entertains each of them. A particularly tall kid comes out of the locker room, and his face lights up when he sees Rose.
“Miss Landry!” he exclaims. “Since we won, can I get an extension on my project?”
Rose laughs loudly. “No chance,” she says. “You’ve had a month to work on it!”
“Come on!” The boy complains. “I saved, like, a thousand goals.”
“That was very impressive,” Rose acquiesces, sounding only a little condescending. “I’m sure I’ll also be impressed by your monologue on Monday.”
The boy groans, throwing his head back, as his friends around him wave to Miss Landry and give him a hard time about getting shot down. Not a single one of them seems concerned with the fact that he’s presenting a monologue on Monday.
Once the boys leave, Ilya turns to Rose. “Is the entire hockey team in your theater class?” he asks.
“Well, Eli is in my Stage Acting class, so it’s a little bit more intense.” She points after the boy who had just left. “But no, not all of them. A lot of them, though.”
“Why?”
Rose looks shocked by the question. “Uh, I’m not sure. I mean, I guess Shane kind of encourages them to, but also, I’m a pretty great teacher.” She flips her hair like she’s making a joke, but Ilya is suddenly very serious.
“Shane encourages them? To do theater?”
Rose looks as bewildered as Ilya feels, like it’s an obvious thing that she’s never considered questioning. “Yeah. He thinks it helps keep ‘em well-rounded. You know, a lot of the hockey kids have family pressure, and he thinks getting them involved in things like theater or music or whatever helps with burnout.”
Ilya blinks a couple of times. He had never – never – had a coach who encouraged him to do anything except shoot the fucking puck.
Before Ilya can unpack all of that or ask any more stupid follow-up questions, the door to Shane’s office opens.
“I really appreciate your time,” Shane says, as the two men he was talking to step out ahead of him. “I’ll get that information to you by the end of the day.”
“We’ll be waiting for it,” the older of the two says, shaking Shane’s hand.
“Congrats again on the win, coach,” the other one says.
“Thank you, thank you,” Shane says, dipping his head a little as he accepts the praise. “We’ll talk soon.”
The men head down the hallway together, making their way to the lobby, and Shane waits until they are a safe distance away before turning his attention.
“Hey,” he says to the three of them. “What’d you think of the game?”
“Incredible!” Rose says, clapping her hands together. “Did you see Alex’s goal?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s kind of my job to see everything,” Shane says, pointing back towards his office. “Eli said he was going to use the win to get out of his Macbeth monologue.”
Rose rolls her eyes. “I already told him no.”
Shane laughs a little. “You run a tight ship.” Then, he turns to Ilya and Svetlana. “What did you guys think?”
They are both quiet for a second, then Ilya decides to put everyone out of their misery. “Was boring,” he says, shrugging. “I took a nap.”
Unfortunately for Ilya’s fragile sanity, that statement lacks the requisite level of disinterest to sound believable when his eyes are tracking up and down Shane’s body. He’s still in his suit, and he looks really good in it.
Ilya imagines he might look just as good out of it.
Ilya can feel Shane watching him carefully, probably cataloging everything that is written plainly on his face. When their eyes eventually meet, Ilya mimics snoring, and Shane’s face breaks into an impossibly wider grin.
“Asshole,” Shane mutters, and Ilya cannot say with 100% certainty whether the affection in his voice is something he’s imagining or not.
“It was not boring,” Rose says sternly, shooting daggers at Ilya. Her tone is remarkably similar to the scolding she gave Tom when he asked for an extension, a fact Ilya isn’t super jazzed about. “It was fantastic!”
“Thanks, Rose,” Shane says, allowing himself to be pulled into a hug.
Rose pats Shane’s back, seemingly intent on placating his bruised ego, but Ilya has a theory that his ego isn’t bruised in the slightest. If the look in his eyes as he stares at him over Rose’s shoulder tells Ilya anything, it’s that Shane takes his statement as a challenge.
“Sorry our playoff win wasn’t exciting enough for you,” he says to Ilya, as his lips quirk up in a smile.
As Rose releases Shane from her hug, Svetlana looks quickly between him and Ilya, almost like she’s lost track of what is going on. Ilya wants to tell her to get in line – he has no clue what either of them are doing, but he likes it a hell of a lot.
“The last goal was exciting,” Svetlana says, her eyes narrowed like she’s testing the water.
The last goal had been exciting, Ilya will give her that. However, most of that excitement came from the fact that Svetlana was out of her seat, yelling (in Russian, thank god) at the player to put the fucking puck in the fucking net!
Between the loud, excited crowd around them and the limited number of Russian speakers in the area, Ilya thinks there’s probably a 0% chance anyone had actually known what she said. Normally, Ilya wouldn’t give less of a shit, especially since her frustration had been warranted, but he had witnessed some pretty outrageous displays of enthusiasm from the parents, and he wasn’t really interested in learning what that turned into when they were angry.
“You thought it was boring?” Shane asks Svetlana as Rose releases him from her hug.
“Yes,” Svetlana says, no hesitation. “But you are a good coach.”
“Sveta,” Rose chastises, horrified.
“Yes, you are a decent coach,” Ilya says, nodding. “If they are untalented, it is not because of you.”
“Untalented, wow,” Shane says, nodding slowly but seemingly otherwise unaffected. Rose looks way more upset than Shane does.
“You guys suck at compliments,” she groans.
“I compliment you all the time,” Svetlana says, taken aback.
Rose sighs loudly. “I know, baby.”
Svetlana looks confused for a long second, quirking her head to one side. Then, she seemingly decides to put in a more honest effort, and she turns to Shane. “Number 12 has good instincts.”
“He was the best player on the ice, no competition,” Ilya agrees. “After he corrected his breakaway.”
Rose gives him a thumbs up, like he needs the encouragement and positive reinforcement, and Ilya makes a face at her.
Ilya’s appraisal seems to shock Shane, and he realizes that maybe he accidentally gave away just how closely he was watching the game he had called boring just a few moments ago.
“Yes – when he stopped pulling up early, the goals came easy,” Svetlana agrees.
“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Shane says, still looking shocked. “Luca’s our best this year, but I’ve been on his case about driving to the net all year. I’m glad he fixed it tonight. He’s, uh,” Shane leans forward and drops his voice, pointing a finger back in the direction of the men who left his office. “He’s getting scouted.”
“I am glad he fixed it, then,” Ilya says.
“Me too,” Shane says, a weird, soft smile on his face. “I think he’s getting it.”
Even though Ilya thinks they’ve rallied and saved the conversation, Rose still looks moderately disappointed. She covers it up well, but Ilya is famously good at reading people.
“All I’m hearing is more reasons to celebrate!” Rose says, shimmying weirdly in a way that is probably intended to feel congratulatory but feels more like a botched attempt at a distraction.
It works, at least a little. Shane turns to her, pulling a face.
“I don’t know…”
“Come on!” Rose practically whines. “It’s not every day you make it to States.”
“Uh, well, yeah. Especially not today, because we didn’t make it to States. We’re just in the semi-finals.”
“Tomato, to-mah-toe,” Rose says. “And another reason to celebrate!”
“I don’t want to, like, celebrate prematurely.” The look Rose gives Shane could best be described as withering, and it immediately puts him on the defensive. “We have another game next week – an even more important one!”
“So true, but it’s happy hour at Smitty’s, so I think you could probably loosen up a little bit,” Rose says, tilting her head to one side as if she’s explaining something particularly obvious to a toddler.
“I don’t know…” Shane mutters.
For a few minutes, Rose lets Shane consider it. When it’s clear that Shane is growing no closer to indulging her, Rose turns her puppy dog eyes to Ilya.
Ilya, who has spent the tail end of that exchange silently observing, doesn’t know what the fuck he did to deserve that. For several seconds on end, he blinks at her in confusion, until she starts to open her mouth and he suddenly remembers her request for him to work his magic on Shane – and then he realizes with dawning horror that he is two seconds away from Shane learning that Rose (and potentially Svetlana by extension, which is a separate mindfuck) believes Ilya somehow contains a magical ability to manipulate him.
Before Rose can say anything, Ilya decides to take matters into his own hands.
“You should come,” Ilya says, trying to sound equal parts disinterested and honest while also blurting out whatever the fuck he thinks of first before Rose gets the chance to say some shit he won’t be able to recover from.
If Rose is so willing to throw him under the bus, Ilya will show her. Maybe Shane shutting him down will shut her up, too.
Shane does not appear to be on the same page. “Yeah?” he asks, snapping his head to look at Ilya.
Ilya shrugs, suddenly slightly nervous that he’s miscalculated. He stays the course, though, likely only paranoid because Rose and Svetlana put delusional thoughts in his head. And, on top of that, he has no idea what the fuck else to do other than dig his heels in.
“Could be fun,” Ilya says, as non-commital as he can manage.
Maybe, if his life depended on it, he could admit that he genuinely thinks it would be fun. He may be testing Rose and Svetlana’s theory, but he also finds that he’s actually telling the truth. It could be fun to celebrate with Shane and their friends.
There’s a split second where Ilya thinks Shane might put his foot down and say no – a moment where Ilya finds himself more disappointed than relieved – but then they make eye contact and Ilya’s stomach falls out of his ass.
“Yeah, okay. Fine.” Shane says. “Just one drink.”
In his peripheral vision, Ilya sees Rose celebrate her victory. Normally, that would be enough to piss Ilya off, but he’s too busy trying to wrangle in the thousands of other emotions he’s currently feeling. He’s somehow both elated and pissed off, relieved and a thousand times more nervous.
Ilya thought he knew exactly how this entire interaction was supposed to go, but now Shane’s going off script and actually agreeing with him and –
What the fuck?
Rose is going to fucking run with this. Svetlana is probably never going to shut the fuck up about Ilya’s supposed magical abilities. Does Shane even know what he’s done?
“That’s what you literally always say,” Rose says, her tone slightly at odds with the way she’s skipping to the door.
“Because that’s what I always do,” Shane says, bewildered, finally looking away from Ilya. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say that this is not always, Shane Hollander. This is a playoff win! Live a little!”
Ilya doesn’t catch Shane’s reply or the next few seconds of back-and-forth. He’s far too focused on the name he just learned.
Shane Hollander. He repeats it in his mind over and over. He kind of wants to say it aloud, just to see how it feels.
In a blink, he finds himself following the other three outside through the parking lot, unsure when he started moving. As he tunes back into the conversation, Shane and Rose are still bickering.
“I told the boys they aren’t allowed to party yet,” Shane says, crossing his arms. “I gotta lead by example.”
“Oh my god,” Rose says, collapsing dramatically against Svetlana. “We aren’t partying, we are going to happy hour, something that is completely normal for legal adults.”
Seemingly aware that he’s lost the argument several minutes ago, Shane shakes his head and falls back to walk next to Ilya.
The parking lot is filled with honking car horns and cheering and screaming from groups of high schoolers. Across the lot, Ilya spots the father he had been sitting next to – the one with a healthy appreciation for face paint and a level of enthusiastic support for high school sports that Ilya had previously believed to only exist in movies. One of the hockey players – the one Rose had called Will – is standing next to him, posing for a photo. Ilya connects a couple of dots, and he realizes that he must have been sitting next to Will’s father. A woman who must be Will’s mother is doing her best to get a picture, yelling at both of them to be serious as they both laugh loudly together.
Will doesn’t seem to harbor any of the embarrassment that Ilya may have suspected. In fact, it looks like he may appreciate his dad’s show of enthusiasm.
That tight feeling from before returns to Ilya’s chest.
“The Chatworths are really into hockey,” Shane says, and Ilya turns to see him watching the same family.
Ilya squints his eyes, wondering how obvious he was being, or what Shane made of him staring at the family.
“He was unexceptional. On the ice.”
Shane looks around to make sure no one is around them. “He got a goal,” Shane says, and Ilya can tell by his tone that he doesn’t disagree.
“Was more like accident than goal,” Ilya says, raising his eyebrows.
Shane snorts loudly, slapping his hand over his mouth as if he can take it back.
At the time, the goal had been surrounded by a fuck ton of players. Ilya is not sure how the refs determined who the puck actually bounced off, but they had given it to Will.
“He’s pretty good for a high schooler,” Shane argues after a while, but his heart isn’t really in it.
“Well, if he wants to go to the next level –”
“He doesn’t.”
Ilya blinks in shock. “What?”
“He’s not looking to go any further.” Shane looks like he’s waiting for Ilya to say something, but Ilya’s kind of speechless, so he just shrugs and continues. “Most of the boys aren’t. They’re just in it for the love of the game.”
Once Ilya had decided that there was no point in taking hockey seriously anymore, he quit. With his parents dead and in the guardianship of his brother, it wasn’t like he had a plethora of options for pursuing greatness or whatever the fuck, but he probably could have found a way to keep playing. Maybe he could have found a way to advance, too, if he really put some work into it.
Even before that, though, Ilya doesn’t think he ever treated hockey as the game that it is. It was a chore when he was younger, something his father made him do because he saw that Ilya could be great. At some point, Ilya saw the same thing his father did, and it became a ticket out of his shitty circumstances. Then, his father died, and it became a reminder of everything that pissed him the fuck off.
Pretty soon after that, hockey was nothing at all to Ilya.
“Coach!” Will yells across the parking lot, and Shane turns towards him immediately. “Can you take a picture with us?”
Shane shakes his head, but Ilya imagines this is not a chore for him. He smiles as he mutters I’ll be right back, then jogs over to join the Chatworths as they snap photos.
It’s anyone’s guess if Ilya ever could have been good enough to go to the next level – or if he even would have wanted to, if presented with the chance. He just knows for certain that when he had the chance to give up on it, he had. It hadn’t been enough for him to keep doing something just for the love of the game.
He watches Will take photos with Shane, and he wonders if he missed his chance to do something not for survival or in pursuit of some higher purpose, but simply because he wants to.
*
According to Rose, Smitty’s is known as a teacher bar. Ilya doesn’t know what the fuck that means, but he had taken one look at the small, dark Irish pub and realized he was familiar with the general concept, even if the title was confusing.
There had been a few tables full of hockey parents by the time the four of them had wandered in, and most of the parents had shaken Shane’s hand or stood up and clapped him on the back. A few even offered to buy him a drink, though he politely declined.
Ilya had turned to Svetlana and rolled his eyes at the display, but secretly, he had wondered at it. One time, his own father had cursed out his coach so badly that Ilya had ridden the bench for two straight games in retaliation. He couldn’t imagine his father ever offering to buy a coach a beer, even if they won a game. They probably could have won the world championship, and Ilya’s father would have found something to complain about.
“You used to play hockey, right?”
Ilya snaps back to the present. Rose is standing next to him, leaning on the counter and observing him as they wait for the bartender to finish their drinks. She flicks her eyes quickly to the table of parents who are still sitting by the door, then back to Ilya, and Ilya realizes he had been staring.
They’ve been at Smitty’s for two drinks and some change, but Ilya’s still thinking about that interaction with Shane and the parents. What the fuck is wrong with him?
“Yes,” Ilya says simply, and he turns back around to try to make eye contact with the bartender again and beg him to hurry up.
In the most general sense of the word, Ilya likes Rose. Especially when he’s a few drinks in, liking Rose is easy.
Sometimes, though, he’s not so good with one-on-one conversations like this, with someone he hardly knows. He doesn’t really care if he looks like an idiot, usually, but sometimes English is hard, and the gaps in his translations are more obvious when there’s not a crowd to fill them in. When he had offered to grab the next round of drinks for everyone, looking for a moment of reprieve from all the horrors he was consistently experiencing, he had been a little freaked out to see Rose volunteering to join him.
Rose smiles at him, like his lack of a word count is endearing, and Ilya realizes he should give her a little more credit, all things considered.
“Do you miss it?” she asks.
“No,” Ilya says, immediately and instinctually. Then, he realizes that it feels like a lie, and he can’t stop himself from saying more. “Sometimes, maybe. It was nice to be, uh –”
“A part of something?” Rose fills in.
It’s not what Ilya was going to say, but it’s probably a close enough approximation of the platitude he was going to offer her. Even though he had spent a lot of time on teams he didn’t give two shits about, he had spent a few years on some good teams with people he considered his friends. On the rare occasion he finds himself actually missing hockey, he tends to remember those times.
In truth, it doesn’t even really begin to cover the basics of Ilya’s inner turmoil, but he’s pretty sure he can get away with revealing precious little if he plays all his cards right.
“Yes. A part of something.” Ilya shrugs. “But no, not really, not outside of that.”
“I always got that feeling with theater, you know,” Rose says, nodding along and not looking at Ilya. Somehow, that gesture makes him feel even more like he’s being watched under a microscope. He remembers Shane detailing his disastrous date with Rose, how he had called her discerning. At the time, Ilya thought he had understood what Shane meant, but now he wonders if he has managed to underestimate Rose. “Like, I loved being a part of something bigger. Caring about the same thing as other people, working towards a goal.”
Ilya realizes, maybe a second too late, that the cards he has to play to get out of this conversation unscathed expressly do not include asking Rose follow-up questions.
He’s never really been good at following rules, though.
“That is why you teach theater now?”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” Rose says, shrugging. “That and the fact that I have rent to pay.”
“You get the same feeling now? Being part of something bigger?”
“Yes and no.” Rose speaks slowly, like she’s turning her thoughts over in her head before deciding which ones to share. “It’s similar, but I have to be a little more removed as a teacher, obviously.”
“So you still miss it, yes?”
When Rose turns to look at him, there’s something a little sad in her eyes. “I take auditions when I can, if that answers your question.”
Ilya considers that. It does answer his question, and something about it reminds him of watching Shane coach. There had been a handful of times during a few particularly frustrating plays where he had watched Shane rush the boards, like he was ready to throw his body onto the ice, fancy suit and all, and score the goals for his team himself. He thought it was kind of funny at the time.
“It is nice that you did not give up on it,” Ilya finds himself saying.
Rose is quiet for a long moment. “Did you give up on hockey?”
Ilya wonders if they teach people to read minds in drama school.
“Yes,” he says after a few beats, then he quickly turns to assess the bartender's progress and figure out if he has enough time to waterboard himself with the soda gun before his beer is poured.
Rose seems to pick up on the fact that Ilya isn’t super thrilled about continuing the conversation, because she lets the silence sit for a while and doesn’t ask any follow-up questions.
Which, for the record, is way worse. Fuck her. At least Ilya could tell her off if she kept digging.
“My drama club is putting on Little Shop Of Horrors next month,” Rose says after a while.
The bartender starts pouring another beer, and Ilya wonders if anyone in the history of the world has ever moved so slowly.
“I do not know what that means,” Ilya says, not looking at Rose. “It does not sound pleasant.”
“It’s a musical about a giant man-eating plant. And then there’s a dentist who’s, like, evil. And a love story, of course.”
Ilya waits a few seconds, just to give those words some more time to rearrange themselves into an explanation that makes sense. When that fails, he turns to Rose and pulls a face. “They make musicals about this?”
“They make musicals about everything.”
Ilya considers that for a moment. “This does not seem like a good story.”
“It’s pretty good, all things considered. You should come to one of the shows.” Rose leans forward like she’s telling him a secret. “I could even get you a discount on tickets.”
“I will consider it,” Ilya says, some hint of honesty in his words. He genuinely can’t tell if he’s intrigued or if he couldn’t care less – all he knows is that he is either on one far end of the spectrum or the other.
The sloth-like bartender decides to finally – finally – deliver their drinks, and Ilya grabs his beer and takes a long, long sip before him and Rose head back to the table.
Shane and Svetlana are deep in conversation when Rose and Ilya approach the table. Shane looks a little scared, and Svetlana looks like she’s tracking prey. Having been on the receiving end of that look, Ilya almost feels bad for Shane. Whatever Svetlana is trying to pull out of him, Ilya’s certain she’s going to get it.
“Here’s the next round!” Rose says as she approaches the table, placing Svetlana’s drink in front of her and temporarily suspending her interrogation.
Shane looks far too relieved – Ilya almost warns him that this isn’t an escape, just a temporary reprieve, but instead he places Shane’s glass in front of him and keeps his mouth shut. He’s done enough talking for the rest of the century.
Without making it obvious, Ilya watches Shane take the first sip of his drink then pull a face. For a heart-stopping second, Ilya thinks he may have miscalculated a couple of dozen things, but then Shane smiles a little, looks over at Ilya, and takes another sip.
Whew.
It had been a pretty fucking ballsy move on Ilya’s part to assume that Shane didn’t want the beer he had asked for and instead ordered him a ginger ale. Sure, Shane was very obviously reluctant to order another drink, and he had been very clearly goaded into it by Rose, but still – it was perhaps slightly outside of Ilya’s comfort zone to make that decision for someone he barely knew.
It was fortuitous timing more than anything else, really. Rose had been momentarily distracted by someone who had recognized her at the bar while Ilya was putting in the order, and he had managed to slip the ginger ale in without her even knowing.
Sure, ginger ale doesn’t really look like beer at all, but Rose is obviously a lightweight with a few drinks in her, so Ilya had made a bet that she definitely would not notice when they got the drinks, and it paid off.
It pays off tenfold when Shane smiles at him like they have an inside joke.
Honestly, Ilya’s just thankful that he remembered the right drink. For a second there, he had been struck by the debilitating fear that he got it all wrong, and that Shane was actually not obsessed with ginger ale. It’s sometimes hard for him to trust his brain to remember small details like that, even when he’s certain.
In the end, he took the bet that, even in the worst-case scenario, he could just live with the utter humiliation of being wrong and buy Shane another beer if it all went south.
He is thankful it did not go south for many reasons, but primarily the lack of utter humiliation and also the look on Shane’s face.
Since the four of them have claimed a table in the corner of the bar, Shane’s made himself at home. He’d lost his suit jacket and his tie almost as soon as they sat down, something Ilya had temporarily mourned.
Then, about a drink or so in, Shane had rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down and undid a few buttons, and Ilya forgot what the word mourn even meant. Or the word suit jacket. Or most words in the English language. Some in Russian too, probably.
Suffice to say, Shane looks pretty good. He looks even better with a knowing smile on his face. Sooner or later, it’s going to literally drive Ilya up the walls.
“Shane says we cannot come to the next game,” Svetlana says, turning to Ilya and forcing him to avert his eyes from Shane, which should probably be a criminal offense punishable by jail time.
“Shane!” Rose exclaims, turning to him with a devastated expression.
“I literally did not say that,” Shane says, putting his hands up in surrender. “What I said was, the game is an hour away.”
Svetlana gives him a look. “You said Ilya would not drive that far.”
“I – I did not,” Shane says, looking at Ilya immediately. Ilya keeps his face as neutral as possible, and Shane’s face shutters a little. His knuckles go white around his glass of ginger ale. “I did not say anything about you specifically – I said no one would drive that far for a high school hockey game.”
For a second, Ilya lets that sit in the air. Shane squirms a little bit.
“This hour-long drive,” Ilya says, leaning forward across the table, “it is particularly dangerous?”
“What?” Shane gives him a look like he’s insane. “No. It’s just, like, north on the highway for an hour.”
“Then there is some other reason we cannot drive?”
Shane balks for a moment, seemingly out of words.
“He is upset,” Svetlana says, leaning towards Ilya like she’s letting him in on a secret, “because we called the game boring.”
“Well – no, I am not upset,” Shane says, giving Svetlana a look. “But, yeah, I mean, it’s going to be a very similar game. On a weeknight. And, yeah, it’ll probably be boring. I don’t expect anyone to travel that far just because – I don’t know, cause I’m coaching.”
“You do not think it will be a good game?” Ilya asks.
Shane gives him a look. “Alright, well, I literally don’t know how to answer that.”
“Better than today’s game, though, yes?” Svetlana prompts.
“It’ll be a better team, so yeah, probably.” Shane pauses for a second. Then, he adds, a little quieter, “it might also suck really bad, because we might lose.”
“You aren’t going to lose!” Rose says, throwing her hands up.
“We might!” Shane says. “We genuinely might.”
“This sounds like an even better game,” Ilya jokes.
He’s pretty sure it does not land at all, because Rose glares at him and Shane’s only reaction is to avert his eyes.
“You would really drive that far for a shitty hockey game?” Shane asks. Ilya can’t get a read on his tone.
For a long moment, no one says anything.
Then, Svetlana shrugs. “Maybe.”
It’s a non-commital answer, and Ilya’s fairly certain Shane wasn’t really asking Svetlana in the first place, but it’s just enough to get them out of this awkward conversation they have boxed themselves into.
The conversation veers off topic, stilted for a few moments, but then ultimately returns to something normal and recognizable as time goes on. Ilya doesn’t really pay attention to most of it, which probably contributes to some of the awkwardness, and instead spends most of his time watching Shane.
The fact of the matter is, Ilya knows he can be an asshole. He’s never shied away from it and he’s never felt the need to change anything about his personality. Now, he’s faced with the reality that Shane might think he’s actually an asshole – not in a funny way, not in a joking way, and especially not in the semi-affectionate way he had called Ilya an asshole before – and suddenly he finds himself feeling weirdly insecure.
Ilya does not consider himself a particularly good person, but he’d like to think that maybe he could convince Shane.
Plus, he already knows he’s going to the fucking hockey game. With the exception of Shane, he’s pretty sure everyone at the table already knows, too. Who the fuck is he trying to kid?
Ilya suffers for a small eternity in his own head, wondering how to make himself more palatable, and he hardly realizes he’s finished his drink before Rose announces she’s closed the tab and everyone agrees it’s time to head out.
Outside of the bar, a few steps behind Svetlana and Rose, Ilya falls into step next to Shane and takes it as a small personal victory that Shane doesn’t walk into traffic to avoid him.
Fuck it. He has no idea how to pretend to be palatable, but he can probably swallow his own fear and pride long enough to be honest.
He takes a deep breath.
“Would you like me to be there?”
It probably comes out a little more aggressive than Ilya intended, because Shane looks taken aback. “Huh?”
“At the next game.”
It’s kind of insane if Ilya thinks about it for too long, the way he can almost physically see the walls Shane puts up in his expression. “Oh,” Shane says, his voice low. “I’m not trying to guilt you into going.”
It is not the answer Ilya was hoping for. “Good. I feel no guilt. Do you want me there?”
Shane looks at Ilya like he’s a little insane. Ilya feels like Shane might be right. “I – I mean, yes, I guess? I don’t know.”
That is still not exactly the enthusiastic answer Ilya was looking for, so he tries a new tactic. “I did not know if you wanted me there today.”
Something dawns on Shane’s face. “Oh,” he says again, his voice not so low this time. “Oh, no – I mean, I did, obviously.”
“Obviously?”
“Yeah, like clearly, you know.”
“I know what obviously means.”
“Oh,” Shane says, his cheeks going red. “Sorry.”
“I do not know what you mean, though,” Ilya says. “This is not obvious to me.”
Shane waits for a long couple of seconds. “I wanted to invite you to the game,” he finally says.
Ilya doesn’t ask why he didn’t, or what that even means. It’s more than enough for Ilya to know that it’s true.
“Okay,” he says simply. “I will be there, then. At the next one.”
“Because you want to be?”
“No, because I have nothing better to do,” Ilya deadpans. “Yes, I want to be there. I want to watch your team play shitty hockey. Is this okay with you?”
Shane’s face breaks out into a huge smile. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “The boys will appreciate the support.”
Ilya huffs in laughter. “I am not going for them.”
Shane smiles over at him, and Ilya feels his heart do some weird, uncomfortable, mushy thing. It’s almost enough for him to take back everything he’s said – almost.
“Thank you,” Shane says. “I appreciate the support, too, by the way.”
“I am sure you do.”
“And I’m sorry if I was weird back at Smitty’s,” Shane says, his expression dimming slightly. He looks back towards the path they are taking towards the hockey rink. “I’m, uh, not good at this.”
“Good at what?” Ilya asks, stuck somewhere between knowing exactly what Shane means and needing him to write out a detailed explanation.
Shane looks at Ilya for a long second, then shrugs. “The obvious stuff, I guess.”
“Hmm,” Ilya says. “I may not be good at this stuff, also.”
Shane’s smile is a little tighter than it was a second ago, but everything in his body language is more relaxed. Ilya takes this as a win.
“My car is on the other side of the rink,” Shane says. He points somewhere off in the distance, most notably in the opposite direction from the way Svetlana and Rose are walking, heading for Ilya’s car. “I’ll see you around.”
Ilya allows himself one long, last glance at Shane – at the suit jacket draped over his arm, the tie hanging around his neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He commits it to memory.
“Maybe,” Ilya says, once he meets Shane’s eyes. “Goodbye, Shane.”
“Goodbye, Ilya.”