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It was mid-October, and the summer had only just begun to withdraw. In New York’s Riverside Park, the leaves that fell before Ilya’s feet were still green around the edges. He kept running, trying to not think too hard about the weather. Global warming means ice melting, he once drunkenly panicked to Svetlana, and ice melting means I am out of a job. She always said he was cuter when he wasn’t thinking.
But he wasn’t being paid to be cute. The Admirals’ season was already off to a rough start. Ilya needed strategies and solutions, and fast. His light jog had turned into a frustration-fueled sprint up and out of the park. He continued two blocks down 110th street. At the corner of Broadway, he finally stopped to catch his breath. Crowds of tourists and nannies pushing strollers and Columbia students rushed around him, treating him as if a mere roadblock in their quest to be anywhere else. This was the one blessing of New York. Here, nobody cared who he was. He could brood and muse in relative obscurity, completely absorbed into the city’s critical mass. He spotted a new smoothie shop through a break in the crowd. It was completely empty, both a boon and a rarity in these parts. On a whim, Ilya entered.
“Hello, welcome to Smoothie King,” a man droned, “for our grand opening please enjoy a drink at 10% off, 15% if you can show a valid student ID.”
Ilya looked up. The barista was, with jet-black hair, lightly tanned, with freckles spread beneath equally dark, intense eyes, possibly the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.
“Wow.” He accidentally exhaled.
The barista looked startled. “What?”
Ilya cleared his throat. “Wow, you seem very enthusiastic about your job. Mister…” He leaned on the counter, making sure to take a long, slow look up to the barista’s name tag, “…Shane? Is there anything here that is good, Shane?”
Shane returned his gaze and flushed. Ilya stopped himself from biting his own lip. “Honestly? No. Everything here is pretty bad.”
Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. Shane grimaced.“Oh, really? Then what’re you drinking?” He gestured to the half empty cup on the counter next to Shane.
“That’s the uh, blueberry smoothie. But I add a banana to bring it up from inedible to tolerable?”
“A banana, huh?” Ilya stopped himself from adding anymore innuendo. “I’d like some of that, please.”
“Just a banana? Or…”
Ilya chuckled. “The smoothie, Shane, with the banana.”
Shane flushed, again. “Right. Yeah, coming right up.”
Shane turned towards the smoothie bar. Ilya stayed leaning over the counter, admiring the view. Worn plaid sleeves were rolled up, exposing surprisingly nimble hands. Shane’s back muscles flexed through the seemingly loose shirt. Ilya’s gaze drifted further down to Shane’s aged, blue Levi jeans. He definitely works out, Ilya thought. The blender shut off, and two loud bangs on the counter snapped Ilya out of his trance.
Shane turned around and handed over the finished drink. “Thanks for that, by the way. For ordering something. I know I’m not the best salesman.”
Ilya smirked and took a long sip, making sure to keep eye contact. “Yes, you are a horrible salesman. But, you are much better at making smoothies.” He took another sip. “And, you are funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“Even better.” He handed over his credit card. Shane must’ve read his name, but casually continued with the transaction until handing the card back over.
“Here you go, Mr. Rozanov.”
“Please, just Ilya.”
“Okay, Ilya. Hope you’re not having a rough day, after last night’s game?”
“Oh no, please don’t tell me you’re an Admirals fan.”
“I-I mean, I like hockey. I used to play some myself. I just happened to see the Admirals game last night. But I’m, uh, more of a Metros fan.”
“Ouch.”
“I-I didn’t mean it that way, I’m not from around here. I’m from Canada.”
Ilya smiled again, this time more gently. “I am just messing with you, Shane from Canada. It is okay, I am not from around here either.”
“Okay.” Shane blushed a deeper, proper rose. Ilya wished he could photograph it, but opted to simply remember it forever. “You probably don’t need advice from anyone, but if I could just say...” Ilya nodded,“…the new guy, your left flank. He’s good, but he’s still green. Usually guys like him aren’t fast enough, but he’s going too fast. You gotta slow him down, keep him closer to you. You can practice plays with slow figure skating counts. That way, he gets a better feel for how you move, then he starts to anticipate your actions, and then you’re no longer chasing after him on the ice.”
Ilya paused, eyes widened. The socially acceptable moment for a witty retort came and passed. Shane opened his mouth as if to apologize, and Ilya held up a hand to stop him. “You talk more like a coach than a fan. Which team did you say you played for?”
“Oh. I didn’t. I wasn’t on some big NHL team. And I left pretty early in my career. Medical condition.”
“That is a shame. May I have your phone?” Shane reluctantly handed it over. “What do you do now? Aside from selling bad smoothies?”
“I’m doing a PhD in English at Columbia.”
Ilya whistled. “An Ivy League PhD? Why are you working here?”
“They don’t exactly pay us enough to make rent.”
“Ah.” Ilya handed the phone back. “My number is saved as Lily. I can save your number under a nickname too, for your privacy. How about, Jane?”
“Are there any other options?”
“Okay, fine, you will not be a woman.”
He didn’t understand why Shane laughed at that. “I certainly won’t.”
“How about, Mr. King? Short for Smoothie King.”
“It’s better than Jane.”
“Okay, Shane From Canada. If you feel like coming back to hockey, or just get tired of being poor, text me.”
“Thanks, maybe I will.”
“I hope so.”