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One moment, you're dominating the game. The next you're flat on the ice, wondering if it's the last game of hockey you'll ever play.
Wet ice, an unexpected collision, a bad angle - Zhenya had time in the air for one incredulous moment that this was how his NHL career would start and end - and he had only mind for the devastating pain, spiderwebbing through his upper body like cracks in an ice sheet.
He'd broken his neck. It was punishment for leaving home, for running away, for thinking he could make it in the NHL. He'd broken his neck in his first fucking game, and he'd never play hockey again.
The world crept in around the pain; the buzz of someone talking in English, fast and frantic. LeClair, he thought, LeClair who had hit him, but Zhenya could not understand a word of it. Beyond that, there was the low rumble of a hockey arena in breathless silence. Zhenya squeezed his his eyes tighter shut and waited for Seryozha to come to him.
Hearing Russian again settled his fear. The situation snapped back into familiarity - another bad hit in another game of hockey - enough for him to focus, to realise the pain wasn't his neck. It was rooted in his shoulder, and when he lifted his head both Stewart and Seryozha scolded him, tones identical even though one was incomprehensible English. The pain pulsed out to his neck and spine, but he could move. The relief worked like morphine, letting him get to his skates and leave the ice unaided.
The crowd let out its breath in a great cheer, no doubt equally relieved that he wasn't hurt, and that they could get on with the game. Zhenya didn't look at anyone or acknowledge the crowd, because his eyes were blurred with tears of pain and anger. His arm hung loose and unresponsive at his side.
Having his shoulder put in hurt, but it was a satisfying kind of pain. The joint slipped back into place with an audible clunk like a seatbelt fastening, and he automatically tried to flex it. The doctor held his arm, and Olga translated his instructions to stay still in her clear, dispassionate voice. She'd turned away when she saw the joint of his arm bulging obscenely under the skin.
It wasn't so bad, she told him on their behalf. It relocated smoothly, and the deep bruising and muscle strain was no worse than they'd expect. Still, he'd be out for weeks and miss the season opener.
He shouldn't have come to America, he thought, and left his pads and jersey in the medical room for someone to collect for him, unwilling to spend the pain to gather them up.
Crosby and LeClair waited for him in the corridor, both back in their game day suits.
"How do you feel?" Crosby said, slow and clear. Zhenya shrugged his uninjured shoulder.
"Three week.". That was close enough; he'd see a specialist tomorrow before they flew back, they'd told him, and get a better idea. "Gonch?"
Crosby spoke, too much and too fast, and Zhenya looked to Olga.
"Sergei Viktorovich didn't want to miss his wife's call. Mr Crosby and Mr LeClair offered to wait for you, and take you to dinner if you feel well enough."
His stomach growled at the thought, pain and drugs unable to ward off the hunger of even half a game. The thought of trying to make conversation in English was exhausting, though, even with Olga there to translate. He'd had dinner with Crosby before, and it wasn't a chore, exactly, but it made him tired to keep his end up.
Crosby smiled at him, bright-eyed and hopeful, and spoke some more.
"He says there's a good steakhouse he knows, where they do onion rings."
Onion rings were not nutritionist approved, but Zhenya loved them. He hadn't noticed Crosby noticing.
"Okay," he said, and Crosby bounced happily in place, looking more like a puppy than a professional hockey player. "I shower."
"Help?" Crosby's eyes scrunched up, and LeClair snorted. Crosby elbowed him. "Shoulder. Okay? Help?"
"No," he said, because he had enough motion to manage that, and he didn't want Crosby helping him shower, Jesus fuck.
They trailed him to the locker room anyway, Crosby peppering Olga with questions she didn't feel the need to refer to him. LeClair was quiet; he was only there because he fucked Zhenya up and felt guilty. Crosby was only there because he was going to be captain.
Seryozha had sent him half a dozen text messages, apologising, saying Sid was staying to take care of him, telling him to call if he needed any help. He'd object that he didn't need taking care of, but Seryozha wouldn't even argue about it, just look at Zhenya like he was a none-too-bright child.
Crosby and LeClair sat in their stalls and talked about hockey, a half-familiar flow of words. Skate, pass, rush, play, deke. It soothed him a little, though he couldn't join in as Olga was waiting in the player's lounge. Dana swooped in to collect his gear, and Zhenya blinked a second before remembering how to say thank you.
"Pohzhaluysta." Dana's accent was terrible, but Zhenya laughed, and Dana looked very pleased with himself. Dana understood the importance of familiar things to hockey players, maybe better than anyone.
When he turned back to Crosby and LeClair, they were both watching him, Crosby's head cocked like Zhenya was a play to figure out. Zhenya dressed in silence, unwilling to hand out clues, but his a lingering numbness in his fingers meant they slipped on his shirt buttons, and he had to appeal for help.
Crosby hopped to his feet and took care of them, before tucking the shirt in and then fastening his belt. Zhenya could feel his cheeks burning, but Crosby seemed entirely unaware of any awkwardness, positively aglow with helpfulness. Zhenya drew the line at Crosby tying his tie, taking it out of his hands and shoving it in his jacket pocket.
"Steak," he said, and Crosby nodded, stepping back to a polite distance, already rattling off words Zhenya couldn't understand.
Crosby excused himself to the bathroom as soon as they'd ordered, casting a pointed look at LeClair, who just rolled his eyes back before turning to Olga and speaking. Zhenya caught sorry and hurt and season and interrupted.
"Tell him it's not his fault. The ice was wet, we slipped, it was bad luck." He watched them talk back and forth, wondering if Olga rephrased his words, what he sounded like through her. Better than he sounded trying to make English words, he supposed. He'd never been gifted at languages.
"He's sorry he didn't score for you," Olga said. "He says it was a perfect pass."
Gonch he would have chirped about being an old man; maybe that was too close to the bone at LeClair's age. Maybe Olga wouldn't give it the right tone, make it barbed instead of friendly. So he shrugged his good shoulder, and thought it was maybe ironic he injured the body part he used to communicate most these days.
"It's okay. They can't all go in," was all he said, and when Olga translated that, LeClair nodded, mouth a wry twist. Perhaps he was remembering the days when more of his had gone in.
He spotted Crosby skulking along the wall, clearly trying to time his return so LeClair had had sufficient time to make amends. When Zhenya caught his eye, he made a show of nonchalantly wandering across the room. LeClair said something to Olga, who reported it with a carefully straight face.
"You get used to Sid. He's a good kid."
That was almost exactly Gonch had said to him the first evening, when Crosby had clasped his hand and showered him with incomprehensible enthusiasm. He didn't know why people kept telling him that.
He expected more hockey talk, but instead Crosby peppered him with questions about Russian. Olga took him through a few basic phrases, but then he turned back to Zhenya, and pointed to everything on the table, demanding Zhenya name it. When their meals came he wanted those named, as well, though Zhenya doubted he'd remember half of it. Still, it was less strain than a conversation, and Crosby was smiling widely, all sticking-out teeth and dimples. Even LeClair looked entertained, though Zhenya suspected it was more by Crosby's behaviour than Zhenya's conversational skills.
LeClair had ordered a beer with his steak, and Zhenya considered saying fuck itto his drugs and getting his own. In Canada, he was over the drinking age.
Crosby might rat him out to the medical staff, though. He seemed like the well-meaning busybody type. Zhenya got a lemonade instead, and wished for kvass.
You never drank kvass, Seryozha would no doubt say if Zhenya expressed such a wish to him, but that wasn't the point. Kvass tasted right, and lemonade tasted wrong. The steak wasn't seasoned quite right, either, and the salad dressing was scanty and too sweet. He didn't want to complain about it, so he resented his plate in silence and told Crosby the Russian for onion and tuna.
He declined Crosby's hopeful offer to split a dessert. LeClair said something in an undertone and Crosby flushed and turned to flag down a waitress.
"What did he say?" Zhenya said quietly, skin prickling at the opaque glance LeClair slanted at him.
"He said you were were hurt and should get rest," Olga said, and finished her tea.
They caught a taxi back to the hotel, and then Crosby walked him to his hotel room like a prom date. Zhenya would object, but he didn't know how to say any of it. When he swiped his card in the lock, Crosby lingered long enough to wave to Seryozha, already in bed with a paperback.
"Poka," he said to Zhenya, going pink, and hurried off towards his own room.
Closing the door was letting out a long-held breath, shutting out all the English and confusion and strangers and leaving him with an anonymous hotel room and a Russian teammate warm with concern. He hadn't roomed with Seryozha when they played for Metallurg, but they'd been friends, thank God. Zhenya couldn't imagine playing here without him.
"How bad is it?" Seryozha said, getting up to come and inspect him. Zhenya could manage his own shirt buttons now, and he peeled it off to show off the bruising, already coming in deep blue. Seryozha whistled, though it had to be far from the worst he'd seen.
"I'm out three weeks, if I heal well," Zhenya said, sounding bitter even to his own ears. "Fuck LeClair."
"He didn't apologise?" Seryozha's eyebrows went up. Zhenya sighed.
"He did. I know, it's not his fault, I just - " he swallowed. It was unreasonable to hold it against LeClair that fate seemed set on keeping him from his dreams. "One thing after another, you know?" He turned away to set his shirt down. He really was exhausted; pain and worry had left him more drained than the game would have.
He couldn't help but wonder what would be next, what would crop up when his shoulder healed.
"Don't mope, Zhenya," Seryozha said gently, and rested his hand on Zhenya's shoulder, the warmth of his hand pleasant on the abused skin. He'd find a heat pack in the morning; too late tonight. "You won't miss much of the season proper, and you did well."
"Well enough?" he said. "If they send me to the fucking AHL, I swear - "
"Don't be ridiculous," Seryozha said, his tone withering. Then he added, "If they do, it'll be for a few games to get your shoulder into shape. I promise you, the post-games were all about what a great player you are and how disappointed they are to lose you for the pre-season."
"Really?" Zhenya knew he sounded needy, but - if he couldn't play hockey, what the fuck was he even here for?
"Really. Coach said it, LeClair said it, Sid said it."
"Crosby did?" Crosby was younger than him, in years and experience, but Zhenya couldn't help but perk up at the praise. Crosby was the future of the Penguins, after all, and that meant if all went well, he was Zhenya's future.
"Of course he did," Seryozha shook his head. "That boy's so excited to play with you. You would have thought it was his shoulder dislocated, he looked so disappointed."
Well. Maybe it wasn't the rote concern of a captain in waiting, then. That was - nice.
"Go to bed," Seryozha ordered, switching off his lamp as he got back into his own bed. "And don't lie awake thinking stupid thoughts; you have to be up early for the hospital, I expect."
Easier said than done, with his shoulder throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but he thought about skating in a Penguins jersey, making Crosby let him go out last, hearing the crowd cheer for him. The future, he thought, and closed his eyes tighter.
Game days were boring when you weren't playing, and worse when you didn't speak the language of your teammates or the TV. He'd petitioned to join in the the warm-up game they played with a football, but Seryozha had told him to go away. Crosby had made apologetic faces and gestures behind him, which lifted Zhenya's mood a little. Crosby did ridiculous very well.
He wandered down the hallway, counting the minutes until he had to go sit in the box, and make stilted, sweaty-palmed conversation with Mario Lemieux. Le Magnifique had been nothing but pleasant and welcoming, but he was still Mario Lemieux as well as Zhenya's boss. He had no idea how Crosby managed to live with the man.
"I can't believe you," said a familiar Russian voice, and Zhenya schooled down the smile before turning to greet Sasha. "So afraid of facing me, you pretend to be hurt? Low, Zhenya." He held out his arms rather than charging forward for one of his exuberant hugs, and Zhenya angled his shoulder away and threw his good arm round Sasha's waist.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said, and Sasha made a noise that probably translated as I scorn petty rules. Sasha was a language Zhenya spoke well, if not fluently.
"Your team will come looking," Zhenya said, and Sasha sighed.
"It's like you don't want me here. Yes, I do, but I wanted to make sure you'd not vanish after I beat your new team. I'll meet you outside your locker room, yes?" He pulled away, and cupped Zhenya's face in his palms for a moment. "I've missed your idiot face, Zhenya! I look forward to seeing you sad when I wipe the floor with your team."
"If you win, it will only be because I am not playing," Zhenya retorted, and used his good arm to shove Sasha away. "Fuck off before someone throws you out."
"Someone apart from you, you mean." But Sasha went, breaking into a jog, and Zhenya turned his steps towards the box, feeling brighter.
The Penguins lost in overtime, and Zhenya regretted agreeing to meet with Sasha; he could be unbearable when he was a winner. But he was mild enough when Zhenya accompanied Gonch out, trailed by a chattering Crosby, who went silent at the sight of Sasha.
"Sidney!" Sasha beamed at him. "I am here to take Zhenya and cheer him up."
Crosby looked faintly wary when Sasha shook his hand, like a cat unsure if it should puff its tail or flee.
"Don't you have a plane to catch?" he said, looking between them, and Sasha shook his head. The next words were too much for Zhenya, and he nudged Seryozha as Crosby and Sasha talked on.
"He says he has permission to stay over and fly back in the morning; as long as he's there for practice in the morning. Sasha, you're welcome to our guest room," Seryozha said, with his usual prompt hospitality, but Sasha shook his head.
"You have a little girl, and I intend to get Zhenya drunk and listen to him curse his luck." He ruffled Crosby's hair, and Crosby ducked away, nose scrunched up. Zhenya made a mental note to try the ruffling. Flower and Army got giggles, Talbot got his hand slapped away, Seryozha an expression of long-suffering impatience.
"Don't get him into trouble," Crosby said, looking overly concerned. Seryozha snorted, and Sasha assumed his sweetest expression and assured Crosby he would take the very best care of "Poor Zhenya." Crosby seemed reassured by that; Zhenya restrained the urge to object, and only smiled when Crosby looked at him.
Sasha, despite his big talk, wasn't a man to get wasted the night before practise. They ordered room service in his hotel, and then lay on his bed passing Sasha's hip flask between them, drinking slowly. Whatever it was tasted sweet and sharp, like unripe berries. It reminded Zhenya of the night before their draft, when they'd settled their nerves with some dreadful brew that was all Sasha had been able to lay his hands on. The future had been so clear, then; getting to the NHL certain. They hadn't given much thought to what they'd do then. Stanley Cups, of course, be rich and famous. Zhenya hadn't thought he'd be drinking in a hotel room with Sasha again, injured and the losing team.
"Don't mope, Zhen'ka," Sasha said, and ruffled his hair. "Why are you so gloomy? Aren't they nice to you? Should I menace Sidney for you?"
"Leave Crosby alone," Zhenya said, kicking out at Sasha's ankle. "I just want to play, is all."
They kicked idly at each other, and Zhenya wondered what Sasha was expecting. Things were different here than they had been in Russia, different in a lot of ways.
His phone vibrated, and he groaned and dug it out, expecting Seryozha. He was drunk enough he mouthed over the Latin characters for a long moment before realising the words were in English, and it was from Sid.
Are you okay, it said, and Zhenya puzzled over it until it chirped again. If you need a ride you can call me.
"Fussy little penguin," Sasha said into his ear, and Zhenya jumped and snapped his phone shut. "Let me." He reached for the phone, and Zhenya gave it up, morbidly curious. Sasha tapped away with his tongue sticking out, and then cackled. Zhenya peered over, but he couldn't understand half the words Sasha had typed.
"Give it back," he said, and stuffed the phone away. Crosby probably deserved whatever it was, acting like Zhenya couldn't spend a night out without getting into trouble. He couldn't work up any resentment, though. Sasha rested his chin on Zhenya's shoulder, breath hot and sticky. Zhenya turned his head, just enough to see Sasha's half-lidded eyes.
"Hey," he said, and Zhenya gently shrugged him off.
"I should go, it's late." He sat up, and Sasha flopped back onto the bed, contemplating him from under his eyelashes.
"Sleep well, Zhenya," was all he said. "You going to call your little captain for a ride?"
"I'll get a cab," he said, turning away and looking for his shoes. Sid probably would come out to fetch him, if he asked, and fuss over him. In fact, Zhenya should probably text him when he got back home, or he'd probably worry.
Zhenya probably shouldn't find that endearing.
"Are you okay?" Crosby said the next morning, eyes big and golden like a surprised kitten, and Zhenya eyed him sideways.
"Not - " he turned to Seryozha, who gave him the word. "Not hungover."
"No, of course," Crosby said, blinking. "But - you've been sad, do you feel better?"
Seryozha's voice was dry as dust when he translated that, and Zhenya gave Crosby a reproachful look. You didn't just say that to someone; you were supposed to convey sympathy through arm-punching, or buying drinks.
Although Zhenya's arm was injured and Crosby couldn't buy drinks. And even without Seryozha translating, he thinks Crosby might not excel at tact. Crosby seemed to expect an answer, though, so Zhenya nodded.
"Good to see friend, speak Russian," he said, and Crosby nodded, looking pleased. "Have go train, now." He ruffled Crosby's hair as he pushed past, and Crosby giggled, and shoved at his hip.
Zhenya smiled all the way to the gym, where he found Jordan Staal face down in the mats.
Staal was injured too, because fate had it in for Penguins rookies. Zhenya had tried not to be pleased he wasn't the only one, but it was good to have company in the press box and on light training. Loud, boisterous, tall company, company that chattered on with sublime disregard for Zhenya's near-total incomprehension. Perhaps that was what having three brothers did for you, Zhenya thought, and was thankful for his one.
"E, If I don't get ice time they'll just send me back to Juniors," Jordy said into the mats. Evgeni was apparently too hard for his Canadian mouth. "And then Eric will be a dick forever."
Zhenya dragged him up from the mat, and gave him a shove towards the treadmill. They'd both get shit if he wasn't warmed up properly. It was boring as fuck, but there was no help for it. Zhenya was still forbidden to do any upper body work at all, and he swore he was withering away. His slapshot would be a ghost of a thing by the time he was back on the ice.
"AHL?" Zhenya said, and Jordy shook his head and babbled a long explanation. Zhenya wished for Seryozha, or even Olga, but he'd been left to his own language efforts for teammates, in the hope he'd be motivated to learn English. It took them a while, but the gist of Jordy's situation was that he could be sent back to a youth league for another year. At least if Zhenya didn't make the cut right away, he'd still be in the pro leagues. And hell, he always had Magnitka to go back to.
He felt a little superior, right up until Jordy got cleared before he did, and Zhenya had to sit at home and watch him get his first goal, unassisted against Lundqvist. Letang got his first goal, the same game, and the Pens won, and Zhenya was missing everything.
It sucked.
When got cleared, finally, finally, he couldn't stop grinning. He grinned up stupidly at Sid when he came over to Zhenya's stall, face solemn.
"He says you should let him go out last," Seryozha said, straight-faced. "He says he let you go out last in the pre-season, and look what happened. It's for your own safety."
"Fuck no," Zhenya said in English, and squinted up at Sidney to make sure he was joking. His lips were a flat line, but his eyes were creased up with mirth. "I'm last guy."
"Okay," Sid sighed, drawing out the word, and then he put his palm on Zhenya's injured shoulder, where it still ached a little. "You're going to be great, okay? You're a fantastic player." Zhenya got the gist of that but still looked to Seryozha for help, to give himself a moment to stop his face doing whatever embarrassing thing it was doing.
It wasn't so different from the Superleague, and it wasn't so different from the sole pre-season game he'd managed. The lights pooling on the ice, the overly-loud annoucements, his own face appearing on the Jumbotron looking young and confused. There were already people wearing his jersey and holding up signs for him. He flipped puck after puck into the crowd during warmups, a dozen children beaming and pressing their small hands to the glass, and only Seryozha's call got him away from them to get his stretching done.
"You still have to play," Seryozha said, but his eyes were bright. "Happy, Zhenya?"
"If I don't fuck up my other shoulder," he said lightly. Sid looped past them, game face already on.
"They love you already," he informed Zhenya, and two minutes later, on his way back, he added, "There's a guy wearing a Metallurg jersey over behind the goal."
Zhenya rolled his eyes - how did Sid even recognise a Metallurg jersey - but he made sure to skate by and salute the fan before leaving the ice.
The pre-game talk was an empty space in his memory. He knew it happened, remembered staring at Coach intently, hearing Seryozha mutter a translation, but he couldn't remember a single word, couldn't remember getting up or the shuffle out of the room. His memories snapped back into clarity when he and Sid did their new handshake, Sid's face very serious. His gaze was fixed on the logo on Zhenya's shirt, only flicking up to meet Zhenya's eyes when their helmets bumped.
The ice was good, the crowd was good, and though his shoulder still wasn't one hundred percent, he was good. The NHL was a harder, tighter game, less space on the rink, but he'd alwasy been good at making space from himself. The NHL might be better than the KHL, but he was still one of the best players, and his confidence grew as he pressed to the net, beaten back time and again, but keeping the pressure up.
He scored, and he finally felt like his luck had changed, the arena roaring for him, their yells bearing him up to weightless joy as he flung his arms around Recchi and Whitney. A messy, garbage goal, but it was against Brodeur, and it tied the game and a goal was a goal.
They didn't win the game. That sucked some of the air from his joy. He turned the goal puck and the game puck in his hands, Dana's neat lettering on them, and thought how much better it would be if they were high on victory right now, instead of restrained and quiet. He smiled for the media, though, and Olga told them how pleased he was to play in the NHL, and how he hoped he could help the team win more.
"Pittsburgh fans great," he added for himself. "Welcome me best." The media smiled back at him, and he felt pretty good about it. Coach nodded to him approvingly as they cleared out, Olga in their wake.
Flower was still huddled in his corner, stripped down to the waist but still in skates and pads. Zhenya watched from the corner of his eye as Sid crouched to loosen the toe ties.
Flower said something, and Sid replied slowly; he spoke French, Zhenya realised, and felt a flash of jealousy. Unfair, he thought, Crosby was Canadian and they spoke French there. He probably hadn't learned it for Flower.
Sid was deft with the pads, and then hetugged off Flower's skates, rocking back as he pulled them free. He didn't get up, though, took Flower's hand in his and uncurled his tight fist, rubbing the palm with his thumb.
Zhenya looked away. Goalies were team business, yes, but there was no need to be intrusive. Sid had it under control.
When he stood up to go to the shower, he saw Flower bump his brow gently against Sid's, half-smiling. None of Zhenya's business.
Sid caught him when he came out of the shower, catching his wrist. He stood closer than most guys would when they were both naked.
"You did great," Sid told him, like he'd told the media how great Zhenya was, and how high his hopes for the future were. "I'm so glad you came to Pittsburgh."
"Thank," was all Zhenya could think of to say, and he bumped his bare shoulder against Sid's, a faint ache in the still-healing tissue.
His second goal came in his second game, nice and easy. It wasn't quite the same thrill in an away arena, the crowd not as joyful, but his teammates patted his helmet and shoulders, bumped his glove. They went to overtime, but they won, and that joy carried them all through the post-game, their meal, and loading onto the coach. They'd flown out in the morning and now back in the evening, and while the married guys were happy to get back, Zhenya would have liked a night in New York. He'd barely glimpsed the skyscrapers, wanted to see how different it felt from Moscow.
Traffic was thick on the roads to the airport. Gonch was napping, and Zhenya looked around to see most of the coach dim, with little pockets of light. Flower's face was lit by his phone as he texted determinedly, mouth in the soft smile that meant he had his girlfriend on the line, and beside him Tanger whispered in soft French.
Zhenya touched his own phone, and wished he could call, and hear a loved voice tell him how well he'd done, that they'd watched his game. Everyone in Russia would be asleep now; his parents would wake up in the morning and check the sports news, and send him congratulations, but by then he would be asleep. No, all he had right now was the closed little bubble of life that was the team, and no one to reach out to beyond it.
His arm jerked, and he slapped at it, making Max curse as he pulled his fingers back.
"Fuck off," Zhenya said, and Max made a gruesome face at him and said a long string of probable rudeness. Seryozha would be unimpressed if woken to translate Max's swearing, so Zhenya just rolled his eyes.
"Movie," Max said, enunciating clearly, and showed Zhenya his laptop. "Want to watch?"
There probably wasn't time before they got to the airport, but Zhenya was too restless for a book. He got up and switched to the empty seat beside Max, accepting half the laptop onto his thigh so he could see the screen. From here, he could see Sid, mouth hanging open as he napped on Army's shoulder. He was drooling.
"What watch?" Zhenya said, turning back to the screen. Max thrust a pair of earbuds at him, and began to work on plugging them into a splitter.
"Batman," Max said, which needed no translation. Zhenya was always up for Batman, and he'd seen this one dubbed in Russian, so he'd have no trouble following along.
He glanced back at Sid, and caught Flower's eye instead. He'd put his phone away.
"Movie?" Zhenya offered, a little flustered by nothing at all. Flower blinked, and looked thoughtfully at the seat. They were spacious, but hockey players were big.
"Yes," he decided. "Move up, Eveni."
"Evgeni," he corrected, and Flower dug a sharp elbow into his ribs.
"Move up, Malkin," he said, and then climbed right over him and over the laptop, ending up perched in Max's lap with his legs hanging over Zhenya's. He stole one of Max's earbuds, and insisted the laptop be turned so he had a good view, which meant Zhenya had to lean up against Max's shoulder.
It was surprisingly comfortable, he decided when Flower's arm stretched round Max's shoulders and his knuckles tapped Zhenya's shoulder in a friendly way.
After his third game, his third goal, the team went out, because they were on a two-game winning streak and it was two days til the next game. Seryozha begged off on account of his baby girl wanting her bedtime story, but shooed Zhenya away when he'd follow.
"You've got to start talking to them yourself," he said. "Go on, have fun, don't come home too drunk. We've got practice in the morning."
Stupid American laws mean that Zhenya couldn't legally drink despite being a professional athlete able to vote, drive, and get into fistfights on an ice rink, so he ended up stuffed into the middle of a booth between Sid and Jordy, who were in the same boat but were not ashamed to beg for shots from older players. Sid shared his with Zhenya, and Zhenya patted his cheek in gratitude every time, enjoying the way he flushed up and giggled.
"Gay," Jordy informed him, and Zhenya was disconcerted before realising that he didn't mean he thought they were gay, just that they were acting gay. Which was pretty fucking bizarre, because in Russia he could have kissed both Sid's flushed pink cheeks and no one would have blinked. Fortunately, Jordy didn't seem inclined to discuss the matter further, only wanting to establish he wouldn't be petted before handing over one of his shots.
After an hour, Sid quietly passed all his shots to Zhenya, who passed several of them on to Jordy, who was listing in his seat and would probably feel like hell in the morning. Zhenya wasn't above pettiness. Anyway, learning to pace yourself was an important skill for Jordy to learn.
Max and Flower were having a shouted discussion in French, which was better than English because no one expected Zhenya to even attempt it. Sid had given up entirely and seemed to be napping with his head on Zhenya's shoulder. Jordy was slurring something to Tanger, who looked as baffled as Zhenya did on any given day. Army was at the bar, flirting with a crowd of girls who seemed amused enough by him to continue to let him buy them drinks. Zhenya gave him even odds of taking one of them home.
It wasn't Metallurg, he thought, but it wasn't so bad. He scritched Sid under the chin, and he yawned impossibly wide, and snuggled closer.
"Gay," Jordy said, and put his head down on the sticky table.
Pre-game nutrition was a serious thing, and Zhenya was experimenting with jerky and dried fruit on assurances from the nutritionist it would convey calories and protein at an impressive rate. His initial assessment was that this much chewing would lead to him biting through his mouthguard. It was by no means the worst thing he'd eaten in the name of health, though, so he tore open another packet of dried cherries, cursing when a hand darted over his shoulder to steal a few.
"Thanks, Evgenny," Flower said, settling beside him on the couch, and Zhenya winced. "What?"
"Evgeni," he said, enunciating clearly, and Flower shrugged, and chattered swiftly in French to Max, who'd drifted over from the microwave upon seeing Flower.
"Eugene?" Max offered, and Zhenya raised his eyebrows. "That's what you'd be in French."
"Not fucking French," Zhenya said, perhaps more irritably than he'd meant, because Flower's eyebrows went up and a wicked smile crossed his face. "Fuck off," Zhenya said pre-emptively.
"Call you Evie," he suggested, and Zhenya glared. It sounded okay, but he was sure there would be a catch, and anyway it wasn't his name.
Sid appeared in the door, heading towards the counter to make his sandwich, and Zhenya stretched out an arm to catch his sleeve. Mostly, it was just to see if he could. Sure enough, though Sid's face scrunched in the way it always did when he was prevented from following ritual, he turned to see what Zhenya wanted.
"What Evie mean?" Zhenya asked, and Sid frowned.
"It doesn't mean anything. Like, E-V? Is it an abbreviation?" Zhenya stared, blank. "Like - does it stand for anything? Or do you mean like, Evie, like a girl's name?"
"Fuck you, Flower," Zhenya said triumphantly. "Can't say Russian name, call me girl? Fuck off."
"Fuck off, I hear you when saying Floooory," Flower mocked, grin splitting his face wide.
"At least Eugene is a boy name," Max said, sweetly reasonable. Sid tried to detach his sleeve from Zhenya's hand, but Zhenya clung tight.
"Not name Eugene," he insisted. "Sid, tell them."
Sid looked rightfully sceptical of his ability to influence Flower or Max, but to Zhenya's delight, he tried. He only cast one longing glance at the waiting jar of peanut butter before launching into a confused lecture about respecting - something, Zhenya didn't follow, but Flower was laughing so hard he was rocking in his chair.
"Thank," Zhenya said graciously, patting Sid's hip, and Sid beamed down at him before finally breaking away and making it back to the smooth-worn path of routine, relief in every line of his body.
"Squid is the best," Max said, voice bubbling with laughter. "I just want to pinch his cheeks."
"Pinch?" Zhenya said, blinking, and Max demonstrated by pinching Flower's cheek, giving him a little shake. Zhenya could understand that, yes. Sid's cheeks were very round and tempting, and he would probably make a very entertaining face.
"Two-touch," Tanger called from the hall, and Sid furrowed his brow.
"It's early," he said, and Tanger popped his head through the door.
"You're late," he glanced up at the clock. "A bit."
"You're like, twenty minutes early. If we start too early, we finish too early, or play for to long, and it'll throw everything off." Sid looked at the clock, too, pouting. Zhenya would feel guilty about delaying him, but the pout was cute.
Tanger apparently thought so too, because he just grinned at Sid's complaints.
"Twenty minutes," he said magnanimously. "You gonna make me a sandwich, Sid?"
"Fuck off," Sid said, smiling now. This was a familiar routine already, people begging Sid for a sandwich. Army had once successfully stolen his when his back was turned, and Sid had bargained away carrying Army's bag to the plane for the next three trips to retrieve the lucky sandwich, slightly squashed from Army's grip.
He'd also filled Army's skates with shaving foam. It was a bad idea to hand your bag over to someone with a grudge, it turned out.
Two-touch, bickering, changing, pre-game, handshake. Everything happened in its proper order, and Zhenya settled into it, letting his body go through the actions while his mind filled with ice, readying itself for the game.
"Good luck out there," Sid said, as they bumped fists, and Zhenya smiled down at him.
"I'm score goal for you, thank," he said, mostly to make Sid laugh and look horrified at the tempting of fate.
Zhenya got the goal, though.
He scored his fifth goal in his fifth game, too. His shoulder didn't hurt at all when he punched the air and raised his arms to the crowd, who yelled back at him, angry. They were pissed off because Sid got a hat trick, finishing with a beautiful unassisted goal, and the Flyers got blown off the ice. Sid hugged Zhenya in the locker room, stinking of sweat, and Zhenya lifted him right off his feet, because hockey was beautiful and so was Sid, today, aglow with victory.
"Party tomorrow," Gonch announced as they settled into the coach for the trip to the airport. Whatever he said next was too complex for Zhenya to follow, but several people turned to look at Zhenya and laugh. Rude.
"What?" he said when Seryozha sat down.
"Just told them not to arrive before eight, I'm taking the kids trick or treating."
"Fuck you," Zhenya said, mildly. He wouldn't deny he was excited about dressing up. He and Natalie had matching werewolf costumes, and she was an adorably fluffy wolfcub. He couldn't think of a better way to spend the evening than showing her off and getting rewarded with candy.
He wanted to ask Sid if he was taking the young Lemieuxes trick or treating, but there were too many words he was unsure of, and he didn't want to make Seryozha translate his idle talk. Mostly because Seryozha would bitch at him about learning the language for himself, like Zhenya didn't have enough to do right now.
Natalie was sleeping over at a friend's house, so the party was at liberty to get raucous, and it did. Ksenia and Gonch had gone all-out as Morticia and Gomez Addams, and he seemed equally enamoured of his waxed moustache and Ksenia's clinging black dress.
Talbo and Flower were Jedi knights, and they duelled with plastic lightsabers until they knocked over a standard lamp and were banished to the garden. Letang wore a big black hat and robe and a grinning mask, which was from some movie Zhenya hadn't seen. Jordy made a reasonably imposing Batman with most of his goofy face covered, but his Robin detracted seriously from his dignity. Jordy wore rubberised body armour with muscles sculpted into it, but Sid looked like a unusually dumpy cartoon character. His shiny yellow cape was crumpled into a thousand wrinkles, and whenever he leaned against something, or bent over, Zhenya had to look away so he didn't stare. It wasn't that the leggings were tighter than the UnderArmour Sid favoured. But the bright colours made it all so much more evident, and the red shorts were clearly not designed to accommodate anything like Sid. The line of them was digging into the curve of Sid's ass. He was going to have red lines there, later.
"I like your costume," Sid said, bright and bubbly. He'd said it to at least a dozen people in Zhenya's hearing that evening, so it was of dubious sincerity, but he smiled back anyway. "It's -" and Zhenya didn't catch that, but Sid petted the fake fur poking out from his torn denim, so Zhenya concluded it was something like soft, or maybe fluffy. Sid had had a few drinks, though, so who knew? He could be saying it was post-modern.
Sid leaned against him, breathing sweet and citrus. He smelled of cheap dyes and teenage boy body spray. Zhenya shouldn't find anything about it attractive, but he still couldn't keep his gaze from catching on the way Sid's eyes folded at the corner when he smiled, the breadth of his shoulders.
"Evgeni," Sid said, with the exaggerated patience that meant he was repeating himself, and Zhenya tore his eyes away from the stretch of Lycra over Sid's biceps. He was suddenly tired of hearing Evgeni from his teammates.
"Zhenya," he said, and Sid wrinkled his nose. "Call Zhenya, please."
"Zenya," Sid offered, and Zhenya shook his head at the limitations of North American tongues.
"Zhenya." He emphasised the sound, and Sid stared fixedly at his lips.
"Jenya. Jayna? Zayna." He was getting worse. Zhenya sighed, but it wasn't so bad. Sid was leaning into him and his brow was furrowed with concentration as he tried to shape his mouth around the word. "Sorry," he said, looking ludicrously disappointed with himself. "I want to get it right."
"Yes," Zhenya agreed, because Sid always wanted to get everything right. He patted Sid's broad back, let his hand linger in the muscled curve of his spine, and Sid leaned more heavily. It was dim in their corner, and no one could see where Zhenya's hand was, under the fall of the gaudy yellow cape. Sid's ass was right there, but some scraps of self-preservation had survived whatever Talbo had done to the punch, and he kept his hands in the deniability zone. "Is okay. Can't all Russian."
"Can't all be Russian," Sid corrected, and Zhenya nodded, feigning innocence.
"Is what I'm say."
"No, you said can't all Russian."
"Can't," Zhenya nodded wisely, biting his lip as Sid's pout deepened. "Is okay, you nice Canada."
"Nice Canadian."
"Is what I'm say."
"What I say."
"No, I'm say."
"I - oh, fuck you, you're fucking with me." Sid let out his uncontrollable giggle, and Zhenya hid his satisfied smile in his glass. Sidney was so, so cute when he was tipsy. It really wasn't fair.
No one was paying them any attention, and Zhenya set down his glass. He'd already had enough, if this seemed like a good decision.
"Noise here," he said, and pressed on Sid's back, guiding him towards the hallway. "Say better in quiet."
He waited til the hall was empty, and then scooted them across and up the stairs, Sid complaining as he tripped over his own feet in Zhenya's wake. Not that they were doing anything wrong, but someone might want to tag along, and his room wasn't big enough for a party.
Sid sat down on his bed, and inspected the walls, which had one of Zhenya's framed Russia jerseys and a poster of Kharlamov. He took his mask off, and wound the elastic round his fingers.
Zhenya sat next to Sid, close enough their knees bumped, and Sid looked at him sideways.
"Are we," he said, and then stopped. He'd thrown himself into Zhenya's arms yesterday, and it had been easy. Most things were easier, on the ice. He put his hand on Sid's knee, and waited. "Are you, uh, fucking with me?"
There didn't seem much point answering that, so Zhenya kissed the apple of his cheek, the flush dusted over his cheekbone which darkened under his lips. The plastic mask had left little indents on Sid's skin, and he traced them with his tongue. Sid's breathing stuttered, and he grabbed a handful of Zhenya's shirt.
"Do you want," Sid said, and then he hesitated, glancing towards the door. "Is it - "
Zhenya's bedroom door didn't lock, which hadn't struck him as a problem before that moment. He kissed the corner of Sid's eye rather than answer, feeling the skin crease and knowing that Sid was smiling. They were drunk, anyway, too drunk to be careful and quiet, and fucking upstairs at a party was stupid and dangerous.
It was lucky his door didn't lock, because he probably would have taken the risk. He couldn't stop pressing kisses to Sid's skin, still the soft skin of a boy who rarely had to shave. Sid nuzzled against his neck, murmuring happily.
It seemed like a long time before Sid's phone beeped, but when Zhenya looked at the clock, it had only been ten minutes or so. Sid sighed.
"They want me for beer pong," he said, and Zhenya tried to make beer pong resolve into something that made sense. "You play?"
"I'm best," he said automatically, and Sid giggled, and took his hand to pull him up to his feet. Someone would explain it to him, probably.
Only Tanger gave them a thoughtful look when they rejoined the party. Sid didn't seem to notice, and Zhenya returned an innocent look and asked him about the rules of beer pong. Three different people tried to explain, and then began to argue about which rules they were using. Sid ignored them all, and began to set up red cups on a table, face intent.
He was such a bad decision, but Zhenya suspected he wouldn't care even when he sobered up. He turned away before anyone could catch him staring, and found himself with an armful of drunk Jedi goalie.
"Gina!" he said, sounding delighted, and Zhenya scowled. Gina definitely sounded like a girl's name.
"Stop it, Flower," Sid said, and a red cup flew past and bounced off Flower's head. Flower's face was so shocked Zhenya almost dropped him in his laughter.
"Sid, I am your favourite goalie and you must not throw things at me," he said, in a rush of indignation. Sid didn't say anything, but Flower sighed noisily at whatever he was doing.
"I can't pronounce his name, Sid, it's not fair."
"Call him Zena," Sid suggested, unhelpfully, and Zhenya groaned when Flower began to cackle.
"Like - like the Warrior Princess? Oh my God, that's perfect. That's your costume next year, right?"
"Zhenya," Zhenya said. "Zhenya."
He dropped Flower on his ass when he just laughed harder. Fucker deserved it.
Six games, six goals, and another win. Zhenya wanted to sing, but he spared everyone that. Flower did not, and was pelted with stinking hockey socks, to his great distress.
"Dinner?" Sid suggested, as Zhenya was tying his tie, and he nodded, looked about for Seryozha. "I told Gonch I'd get you back to the hotel," Sid added, ducking his head, and Zhenya should probably have rolled his eyes at Sid so cavalierly taking over his evening, but instead he smiled.
They were in Los Angeles for six days, playing the Kings, San Jose, and Anaheim. It meant they had time in the city, and Zhenya was quite prepared to play tourist. Sid apparently had the same idea. He'd rented a car to drive them down to Santa Monica.
"Army not dinner?" Zhenya said, and Sid shrugged.
"No," he said, and presumably whatever reason there was would have been too complicated for Zhenya's limited English, because Sid didn't even try to explain it. Zhenya had no objection at all to monopolising Sid.
They went to a nice restaurant overlooking the ocean, which Zhenya thought Sid was explaining had been recommended to him by one of the Kings. It seemed nice enough, with crisp air coming off the water and huge windows.
The menu had no pictures, but Sid had come prepared. He produced a pen, and while Zhenya eyed him disbelievingly, he drew his own little pictures of food on the napkins, looking very pleased with his own cleverness.
They were terrible pictures, but Zhenya made him draw one for every item on the menu before settling on steak.
"Zenya," Sid tried, with a hopeful light in his eye, and Zhenya shook his head. Sid drooped, and Zhenya kicked his ankle gently.
"Is okay," he said, and Sid nodded, still looking dejected.
"I'll get it right."
Zhenya got control of the radio on the drive back, because Sid was too careful a driver to spare his hands from the wheel and his eyes from the road for long enough, and Zhenya pretended to ignore the complaints he understood.
"No," Sid protested when he picked a loud rattle of a rap, figuring it would be as barely comprehensible to Sid as to himself. "Turn it down, at least." He couldn't keep the grin off his face, though, and Zhenya turned it up, smiling brightly. "Oh my God," Sid said, and pulled over, turning the keys so the radio went off. Zhenya blinked at him, and then glanced out the window. They were in an empty road, next to a park.
"I'm not walk," Zhenya said suspiciously, clinging to his seatbelt in case Sid tried to turf him out. Sid giggled at him, and reached to grab his hand, linking their fingers together.
Oh. Oh.
He didn't know any of the words for this in English, but he could only guess this was Sid's best attempt at a makeout spot. His tongue slipped out to wet his lips without input from his brain, and Sid's gaze followed it, eyes dilating. He leaned in, and was promptly choked by his seatbelt; Zhenya burst out laughing, and Sid let go of his hand and slapped at him, mouth twisting between a grin and a pout.
"Shut up, shut up," he said, undoing the seatbelt and then hitting the release on Zhenya's. The next bit was too complicated, but then Sid finished "-walk home," and Zhenya grabbed his hand again.
"Not walk," he said, and he'd ask for a kiss but he doesn't know that word, fuck. He refuses to ask Seryozha or Olga. "How call - " he touched his own mouth, then tapped his fingertips on Sid's full lower lip. Sid coloured up, but held his gaze.
"I want to kiss you," he said slow and clear, and Zhenya nods.
"Okay." That seemed - not enthused enough, so he tugged encouragingly on Sid's hand, and Sid shuffled forward in his seat, looking at Zhenya's mouth like it was a puck in a faceoff.
Sid kissed him very precisely, eyes half-shut and watching Zhenya's face. Zhenya stared back to be a dick, and Sid started to giggle, and then sat back and covered his face with his hands.
"You suck," he said when he'd calmed down a little, and Zhenya grinned at him.
"Room for impro - improving," he tried, which was what Coach had said today, and Sid laughed harder. "Is okay, train hard, good team."
"Oh my God, shut up," and Sid leaned in again, kissing sloppier this time as his smile got in the way. He tasted of chocolate and raspberry, and he put his hand up to cup Zhenya's cheek.
Zhenya wouldn't say it was the best kiss ever, but he felt good about it, liked the little sniffs of breath Sid took in, liked the way Sid squeezed his hand. He thought about suggesting the backseat, of getting Sid's weight on him and his hands under clothes, but there was no way Sid would risk it, he knew.
He put his hand under Sid's shirt anyway, untucking it just so he could curl his hand round Sid's thick waist, warm skin under his palm. It felt good; he looked forward to touching more.
His lips were sore when Sid finally pulled away, unpeeling his fingers reluctantly from Zhenya's jacket.
"What," Zhenya said, complaining, and Sid grinned at him. His mouth was obscenely red even in the dim light.
"Curfew," he said, and Zhenya groaned.
"Skip," he suggested, curling his hand round Sid's knee, and Sid laughed, already buckling his seatbelt.
"Yeah, like I want Gonch waiting up for you," he teased, and Zhenya sighed.
He had no clue how they were ever going to get any privacy, both billeted with teammates like they were.
Sid rolled the windows down, and he breathed in night air, wind ruffling up his hair. It was a nice night for a date, he thought, and smiled out at the passing cars.
His seventh NHL game, he didn't score a goal.
They lost, and the locker room was subdued. He was patted and congratulated, told his streak was a modern-era record, but it was hard to care when they'd lost the game. Sid hadn't even gotten a shot on goal, for the second game in a row. He smiled at Zhenya, though, eyes steady when he said how good Zhenya had done.
Zhenya didn't try to catch him alone. They had to fly back to LA, and there was morning skate the next day. Maybe after that he could grab Sid for a bit.
Next morning was bright and warm, perfect California weather. It was hard to stay in a grey mood with the sun pouring down on them, and by the time they were at the rink, everyone had perked up. Flower was feisty all practice, calling out insults after every shot, dancing on his skates like his pads weighed nothing. He made an obscene gesture as Zhenya swept down the ice towards him.
"C'mon, Jenny," Flower yelled out, and Zhenya knew that was a girl's name, okay. He threw his weight to put a spectacular snow shower up, using the length of his reach to whip the puck out and tuck it in behind Flower's pad from the other side in the second he'd lost sight of the puck. He stretched too hard, he lost his balance, and then he tumbled into Flower and pitched them both into the net. "Oh, fuck off, fucker!" and then there was a torrent of French, but Flower laughing as well.
"Gino," Zhenya said smugly, displaying his latest bit of hockey slang, and Tanger laughed behind him.
"It's better than Jenny," he said, and shoveled Zhenya out with his stick, pushing him over the ice.
"Goal," Zhenya insisted, because he didn't mean that was his name, for fuck's sake. Sid caught his arm, and helped him climb to his feet. "Gino, goal," he told Sid, who just nods.
"Six game streak," he agrees. "Gino."
He looked pleased. Zhenya remembered his sad frown when he'd tried to say Zhenya for the dozenth time, and gave in. They were hellbent on nicknaming him something.
"Okay," he said, and was rewarded by Sid's widest smile.
"You want to come watch TV and get room service with Army and me after this?" Sid offered, and Zhenya nodded. "I thought we could watch some game tape," he added, and Zhenya managed not to sigh. He'd walked right into that one. Sid bumped his hip gently.
"Army's got a thing in the afternoon, though, so maybe..." he was turning pink, but still smiling. "We can just hang out?"
"More game tape?" he checked, and Sid shook his head.
"We don't want to overwork," he said, which Zhenya didn't believe for a second. "Just hang out, clear our heads." He bumped their hips again, and cast a pointed glance at Zhenya's mouth. Maybe he was under the impression he was being subtle.
"Seryozha says I should practice my English," Zhenya said, widening his eyes, and Sid gave him a creditable attempt at a dirty smile.
"I've got some words to teach you," he said, but he sounded so pleased with his own wit, Zhenya could only throw back his head and laugh. Sid laughed too, joyous and loud.
It wasn't Magnitogorsk, but it would do, Zhenya thought. Pittsburgh was his future.