Chapter Text
Ilya was still sitting on the couch when Anya came over and nudged his hand with her nose.
He looked down at her.
"Hey, you."
She nudged him again.
"Yes, okay. Come here."
He scratched behind her ears, then glanced at his phone.
Shane had hung up a few minutes ago. Ilya had spent most of that time trying to decide whether he should call him back or not.
He'd wanted to know how the meeting with Theriault had gone. That was all. Somehow, they'd ended up arguing, and Shane had apologized about five fucking times for things Ilya hadn't even been upset about.
He put his phone down.
"Your father is being difficult."
Anya wagged her tail.
"Other father."
He leaned back against the couch.
He'd known Shane was hard on himself. Of course he had. He'd been making fun of him for it for years.
But thirty-two mistakes?
In a game they'd won?
And Shane had stayed up half the night writing them down, only to get up early and watch the whole fucking thing again.
Ilya rubbed his face.
He really hadn't known it was this bad.
Long distance fucking sucked. He missed Shane all the time, and apparently that wasn't even the worst part. When they barely got to see each other, it was too fucking easy to hide when something was wrong. Shane could sound perfectly fine on the phone, and Ilya wouldn't know any better.
He got up and went into the kitchen. Anya followed him, apparently convinced that his bad mood meant she was about to get a snack.
"No. You've eaten."
She sat down beside the fridge anyway.
Ilya took a container of leftovers out and put it in the microwave. While it was heating, he checked his phone again.
Nothing.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting. Shane was probably still driving home, or at the gym, or doing whatever ridiculous extra training he'd decided he needed today.
Ilya opened their conversation.
He typed a message, deleted half of it, then sent the only thing he was sure about.
Love you, Hollander.
A few seconds later, he added:
Anya thinks you are idiot.
He put the phone on the counter and went back to his food.
By the time he'd finished eating, Shane had replied.
Love you too.
Tell Anya she's rude.
Ilya smiled despite himself.
He could make Shane laugh. He could get him to talk about his day, complain about traffic, send him pictures of whatever he'd cooked for dinner. Usually, that was enough to make the distance feel a little less miserable.
Apparently, Shane could also do all of those things after spending hours convincing himself he'd played like shit.
Ilya looked at the messages for another moment before locking his phone.
He didn't want to spend their next call arguing about a notebook.
He also had no idea how he was supposed to pretend he hadn't heard about it.
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Shane called that evening.
"Hey," Ilya answered.
"Hey. Is this a bad time?"
"No. Why?"
"Just checking."
Ilya settled onto the couch and moved Anya's paw off his leg.
"Did you eat?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Chicken and rice. You?"
"Leftovers."
"Good."
For a few minutes, they talked about ordinary things. Shane told him about something one of the guys had done at practice. Ilya complained about a meeting that had gone on far longer than necessary. Anya climbed onto the couch and made herself comfortable against his thigh.
It was nice. Ilya had missed talking to Shane without feeling like he needed to choose every word carefully.
Then he made the mistake of asking, "You watched game again?"
"No."
"Good."
"I told you I wasn't going to."
"Yes, I know."
Shane went quiet.
Ilya stared at the television, which was playing something he hadn't been paying attention to.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Hollander."
"I didn't watch it again, okay?"
"Okay. What do you want, medal?"
He meant it as a joke. It sounded less like one coming out of his mouth.
"No," Shane said.
"Shane, I am kidding."
"I know."
Great. Now Ilya was making him feel bad for doing the thing he'd asked him to do.
He reached for the remote and turned the television off.
"Listen. I don't want to fight with you again."
"Neither do I."
"Then we don't fight."
"Okay."
Ilya scratched Anya behind the ear. He could hear Shane moving around on the other end of the call, followed by what sounded like a cupboard closing.
"Are you making more food?"
"No. Tea."
"At least something normal."
"Drinking tea is normal?"
"For you? Very."
Shane laughed, and Ilya felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
They talked for a while longer. Ilya told him Anya had tried to follow him into the shower that morning, which Shane found far funnier than it deserved. Shane mentioned he had an early start the next day.
Ilya almost asked what time he'd planned to go to bed that night. Almost asked whether he'd brought the notebook home.
Instead, he said, "Call me tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
"Goodnight. Love you."
"Love you too."
When the call ended, Ilya stayed on the couch with Anya for a little longer.
He was glad they'd had a normal conversation.
He just wished he wasn't sitting there wondering how much of it had actually been normal.
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Two nights later, Montréal played against Tampa.
Ilya got home from practice, took Anya out and ordered dinner early enough that he wouldn't have to get up in the middle of the game. By the time the broadcast started, he was on the couch with his food and a dog who was very interested in it.
"Not yours."
Anya rested her chin on his knee.
"Don't look at me like this."
She kept looking.
He moved the container farther away.
Shane looked good from the opening faceoff. Really fucking good.
He scored in the first period, picking up a rebound before Toronto's defense could clear it. In the second, he sent a pass across the ice that gave one of his teammates an easy finish.
Ilya grinned at the television.
"Nice one, Hollander."
There was a chance later in the period when Shane got the puck in close and tried to put it past the goalie. The goalie moved across in time and stopped it.
Ilya barely thought about it. Good chance. Good save. The game went on.
Shane scored again in the third.
By the final horn, Montréal had won, and Shane'd finished with two goals and an assist.
Ilya reached for his phone and sent him a text.
Fucking show off.
He watched Shane skate over to congratulate his teammates, then stayed on the broadcast for the interview.
The reporter asked about his performance. Shane talked about the team first, because of course he did, and said they had done a good job creating chances.
Then he brought up the save in the second period.
Ilya closed his eyes.
Of course.
Shane said something about needing to finish chances like that, especially in a close game.
"You scored two fucking goals," Ilya told the television.
Anya lifted her head.
"Not you."
He watched the rest of the interview anyway.
Shane called after the game.
"Hello, superstar."
"Hi."
"Two goals. One assist. I hope you are very pleased with yourself."
"It was a good game."
"Yes, it was."
There was a pause. Ilya knew that pause. He didn't like it.
"I should've had the third, though."
He looked at the ceiling.
"Shane."
"What?"
"You scored twice."
"I know how many goals I scored, Ilya."
"Then why are we talking about one you didn't?"
"I'm just saying I should've scored there. I had the chance."
"And goalie made save. This happens."
"I could've put it higher."
"Maybe."
Another pause.
Ilya remembered their last argument a little too clearly.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yes. Maybe you could have put it higher."
"Why are you saying it like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying not to argue with me."
Ilya sighed. "Because I am."
"I wasn't trying to start anything."
"I know."
And he did. Shane wasn't looking for a fight. He'd just said what was on his mind.
Apparently, after two goals and an assist, what was on his mind was still that fucking shot.
He'd brought it up in the interview, too. How long had he been thinking about it? Since the second period?
"Did you get my message?" Ilya asked.
"Yeah."
"And?"
Shane laughed quietly. "You called me a show off."
"Because you are."
"You're one to talk."
"Yes, but I am allowed. Different rules."
"Obviously."
Ilya shifted on the couch. Anya had managed to wedge herself between him and the armrest, and he was running out of room.
"Your daughter is taking over entire couch."
"She's allowed."
"Of course you take her side."
"Someone has to."
Ilya sent him a picture. Anya looked directly at the camera, one paw resting on his thigh.
"Oh, she's adorable," Shane said.
"She's thief."
"She's a dog."
"Very spoiled dog."
"You spoil her more than I do."
"Untrue."
They spent the next few minutes talking about Anya. Ilya told Shane he'd have to deal with her himself when he came to visit next week. Shane said he couldn't wait.
Ilya believed that, at least. He couldn't fucking wait either.
After a while, Shane said he needed to shower.
"Okay. Are you going home after?"
"Yeah. I'll grab something to eat."
"And sleep?"
"Yes, Ilya."
"Just checking."
"I know."
Ilya hesitated.
"You're not rewatching the game tonight?"
"No. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is fine. Just don't stay up until two again."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too."
He put the phone down and looked at the final score still displayed on the television.
Two goals and an assist. Three points in a game against Toronto. Shane should have been unbearable on the phone, he should have bragged about that. Ilya would have been.
Instead, they'd spent the first part of the call discussing a shot that hadn't gone in.
He picked up the remote and found the replay.
He found the missed opportunity in the second period after a couple of minutes. Shane got the puck, moved in and shot. Toronto's goalie came across and got enough of it to keep it out.
Ilya watched it again.
Sure, Shane could have put the puck higher. He could have released it a little sooner, too. On another night, that probably would have been a goal.
It was also a very good save.
Ilya set the remote down.
He knew how easy it was to sit there and take a play apart. He did it for a living. Shane did too. It was part of their job to notice the things they could improve.
But Ilya had watched the whole game. He'd seen everything Shane had done.
He wasn't going to spend the rest of his evening studying one missed goal just because Shane couldn't stop thinking about it.
"Come on," he told Anya, getting up. "Last walk."
She was off the couch before he'd finished speaking.
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The next morning, Ilya checked his phone while he waited for his coffee.
He had a message from Shane.
Morning ❤️
Ilya typed back.
Did you sleep?
Yes.
How much?
Enough.
Liar.
Shane called him instead of replying.
"Why do you ask me questions if you're just going to call me a liar?"
"Because you say enough. This is not number."
"I slept, okay?"
"Okay."
"Are you interrogating me before coffee?"
"Yes."
"Great."
Ilya smiled and took his mug off the counter.
Shane sounded tired, but he was talking to him. He told Ilya he was on his way to the airport and asked about his plans for the day.
Ilya listened while Shane complained about the traffic. Ilya told him about practice, and they argued briefly about something that had happened in a game the previous week.
It was a perfectly ordinary phone call.
Ilya didn't ask about the notebook. Shane didn't mention it.
They'd see each other next week. He'd been counting the days for a while now, but after the last few conversations, he wanted Shane there more than ever.
He wanted to look at him when he said he was fine. He wanted to know whether he was eating properly, whether he was sleeping, whether that notebook was sitting on the coffee table every night.
Mostly, he just wanted to be in the same room as him.
Maybe Shane would talk about all of it when they were together. Maybe he wouldn't. Ilya was tired of trying to have these conversations over the phone.
He opened his calendar, even though he knew perfectly well what day Shane was coming.
Six more days.
Fuck, he missed him.