Chapter Text
Subject: Request to Inform Ilya Rozanov of a Family Death
Mr. Drover,
My name is Natalya Listunova. I am the sister of Oksana Rozanova, who was married to Andrei Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov's brother.
Andrei died unexpectedly this week. I am reaching out because Ilya has been estranged from the family, and I believe he should be informed of his brother's death personally rather than through the media or other third parties.
There is also a pressing legal matter involving Andrei and Oksana's ten-year-old daughter, Aliya. My sister passed away several months ago, and with both parents now deceased, Aliya is currently in state care in Russia. As her aunt and uncle, Ilya and I have equal legal standing. I am in the process of petitioning for custody and to bring Aliya to Canada, where I have lived for several years; however, this requires Ilya's acknowledgement and a signed affidavit declining custody.
I have attached a photograph of myself and Ilya from several years ago to establish my identity and connection. I would be grateful for your assistance in facilitating contact so that I may inform him directly and address this matter as quickly as possible, in Aliya's best interest.
Thank you for your time and discretion.
Respectfully,
Natalya Listunova
The drill had already reset twice before Ilya noticed Harris.
Not standing at the boards like the trainers or the assistant coaches, but back near the tunnel, jacket on, flipping his phone back and forth in his hands. Harris didn’t wave. He waited until the whistle cut through the rink again, providing a moment of reprieve.
Then he caught Ilya’s eye and tipped his head once.
Ilya skated in, peeling off one glove with his teeth and tugging his helmet loose as he slowed. Shane was circling back toward the blue line, already resetting. If he noticed anything, he didn’t show it.
Harris met him just off the ice.
“Can I steal you for a minute?” he asked in a low voice. Not urgent, but not casual.
Ilya nodded, pretending not to notice how weird Harris was behaving. Great, he thought. What leaked online this time?
They walked down the narrow corridor that smelled like wet rubber and disinfectant, past the video room and the staff bathrooms, to the small office Harris used on practice days. It wasn’t fancy. A desk, two chairs, and a framed team photo that hadn’t been updated in years, left over from the previous tenant. The door closed with a soft click.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing at the battered office furniture.
Ilya was still getting used to this version of Harris. The promotion to Senior Director of Communications had come with more responsibility, and the twenty-six-year-old sometimes overcorrected when he tried to sound professional. Ilya had learned not to read too much into it. There was always something; a headline, an Instagram comment, a problem that sounded urgent until it wasn’t. Whatever this was, it would resolve itself, the way these things usually did.
He’d play along, letting Harris practice being an administrator. Ilya knew some of the guys dismissed the role entirely, which left Harris trying a little too hard to be taken seriously. He liked the kid, and thought he had good instincts navigating the media circus Ilya and Shane had created by being on the same team. He just needed more confidence. And maybe a cleaner desk, since the haphazard stacks of paper didn't project much credibility.
“Do you recognize the name Natalya Listunova?”
His first answer was to say no, never heard of her, only because Harris butchered the Russian pronunciation so badly. When Ilya pieced the syllables together in his head correctly, he frowned. “Yes,” Ilya said slowly. “That is my brother's sister-in-law. In Russia. Why are you asking me this?” he added when Harris would not reply.
The sweat cooling on the back of his neck was beginning to make him feel icy cold, trapped beneath the helmet. He considered taking it off, then didn’t; Harris usually got to the point quickly.
“She contacted me this morning and said that your brother, Andrei, passed away earlier this week.”
Whatever reaction Harris was expecting, he must have been more surprised for Ilya to say, “okay. So he’s dead.”
“Uh…yeah. Yes. So, she also states that her sister — your brother’s wife — died several months ago.”
Ilya stared at a handful of pens waiting to roll off the edge of Harris’s desk. He really did need to clean in here more. How could he find anything in this room? Surely the Centaures could afford to buy the guy a filing cabinet, or at least some folders.
“There’s a legal matter involving their daughter,” Harris went on. “According to her message, the child is currently in state care in Russia. Natalya says she’s seeking custody and relocation to Canada and that this process may require your cooperation–”
“Money?”
“What?” Harris blinked.
“Did she ask for money?”
“No, she didn’t. There was something about an acknowledgement–er,…” he glanced at the computer screen, “affidavit declining custodial rights. Lots of legal jargon. Do you want me to forward you the email? Might want to run it by your attorney, see if they can make better sense of it.”
Ilya nodded again, running his tongue along the back of his veneers to keep from saying anything. Nothing that wanted to come out of his mouth was going to make him sound very caring or sympathetic, and Harris was already looking at him with thinly veiled unease. He did want to see the email for himself, however.
“I can step out,” Harris offered, clicking around on his computer. “Maybe go get Shane for you.”
“No,” he said, sharply. “I—” his words jammed, familiar English suddenly feeling heavy and uncooperative. “Give me a minute. I’ll be down soon. Just let me read this for myself.”
“Of course.”
Harris moved to the door, paused with his hand on the handle. “For what it’s worth,” he said, a little more confident now, “you don’t need to decide anything this second.”
The door closed behind him, and Ilya heard the chime of an email notification as the forwarded message landed on his phone.
He sat alone in the office, the sounds of practice bleeding back in, distorted and distant. He thought of Shane on the ice, stick tucked under his arm, waiting for the drill to restart. The word state, too, and how it sounded like a place you could get lost inside.
He set the helmet down on the cluttered desk and stared at it until the rest of the room blurred and dimmed, the Ottawa Centaurs logo burning itself into the center of his vision.