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Something was wrong with Ilya. Svetlana knew it in her bones, knew that something specific was eating at him, but she wasn’t one hundred percent certain what it was yet. She had some suspicions, but they seemed too wild to be true, even for Ilya. So Svetlana mentally went through The Checklist: his mama’s birthday and death day had come and gone months ago; he wasn’t injured and his team was playing well this season; his dad and his brother were terrible, but no more than usual as far as Svetlana knew.
It could just be that his brain had turned on him again, but she didn’t think so. Ilya was trying far too hard to pretend like he was absolutely fine. If it was just the usual ebb and flow of his moods, Ilya would be acting like a grumpy bitch instead of pasting on fake smiles or reverting to the blank, hollow-eyed face that was even worse. If she weren’t worried about him, Svetlana might be insulted that Ilya was putting in so much effort to fool her, when they had known each other too long and too well for that to ever work.
They were having a pajama party in their underwear, hanging out on Ilya’s bed watching a hockey game on TV and smoking cigarettes that she had bought with his money. (IIya seemed to think that if the pack of cigarettes lived in Svetlana’s purse then it didn’t count when he smoked most of them. But he silently slipped her a five dollar bill when the pack ran out anyway.)
Svetlana was ragging on Matheson (one of her favorite pastimes), and Ilya was playing along, saying that he would tell the guy what she’d said when Ilya saw him at the All-Star Game next week. It was the perfect opportunity to investigate her pet insane theory, so Svetlana took it.
“You are playing on the same team as Hollander this year, yes?” So casual how she said it, not even looking Ilya’s way.
“Is he also mediocre?”
“No, he’s amazing. Those hands.” Svetlana glanced at Ilya and pointedly added, “And he’s gorgeous.”
And then Ilya, her idiot friend, lied to her face. “If you say so,” he said, rubbing the side of his nose with his thumb like he did when he was nervous.
For a second, Svetlana couldn’t find the words to protest such a ridiculous statement. Shane Hollander was objectively beautiful, and she and Ilya always gossiped about hot men together when they were alone. It was pretty much his only chance to do so, after all.
“What?” Ilya asked, all feigned innocence.
Svetlana side-eyed him and said,“You know he’s gorgeous. And you know he’s good.”
“He’s very good,” Ilya conceded, as if that was what they were really talking about.
“I would love to see you on a line with him,” Svetlana said, and this was true.
“Not sure he can play wing.”
“But you can.”
At this, Ilya sparked to life. “You would have him center me?” He pointed to himself in an exaggerated expression of offended disbelief. “Me?”
Svetlana laughed and goaded him some more. “The people would love it,” she insisted with as straight of a face as she could manage while he was being such a goof.
“The people are wrong!” Ilya cried, jumping on her playfully like when they were little kids and life had only dealt them correspondingly little wounds. When Ilya’s beautiful mama was still alive to scold them for jumping on the bed and Svetlana didn’t yet understand why so many people treated her beautiful mama like shit. Svetlana giggled, and Ilya leaped on her again.
Svetlana let Ilya use the roughhousing as an excuse to resituate himself so his head was resting in her lap. She petted his hair and said, “I wonder how many outfits Rose Landry will bring. She has such good style.”
Ilya was quiet for a while before he asked, “Do you really think he will bring her?”
Svetlana’s hand stilled in his curls. Very carefully, she said, “I do not know. I have never met him. What do you think?”
“If she is his girlfriend, he probably will, yes.” The words came out of Ilya’s mouth like it hurt him to say them. Svetlana was increasingly convinced that it did.
“Well, the Internet thinks she is his girlfriend,” Svetlana said, and resumed petting him. “But Ilya, a lot of the Internet thinks that I am your girlfriend, and we know that is not true.”
Svetlana and Ilya hadn’t even fucked each other in a while. That in itself was not a sign of anything–their friendship had never been rooted in sex, and they had gone long stretches without it before–but Svetlana was pretty sure he hadn’t been fucking anyone else either, and that was weird.
“You could come with me,” Ilya said.
“Ilya,” she said, and sighed.
“What? You would have fun. Lots of new hockey players for you to terrify. And . . . Florida. You can buy a new bikini.”
Before Ilya could blather anything else, Svetlana touched his shoulder and commanded, “Ilyusha, look at me.”
He did, reluctantly.
“I will do this thing for you–this probably very stupid thing–but only if you tell me the real reason why.”
Ilya looked away. “I do not know what you mean.”
Svetlana had had enough of dancing around this. If she was crazy and delusional, he would just say so. She took a deep breath and said, “Ilya. Is Shane Hollander your Jane?”
Ilya stared at her with wet, desperate eyes, and did not deny it. And oh no, Svetlana hadn’t ever wanted to see him look like that again. She gathered up the bulk of him in her arms as if he wasn’t twice her size now and rocked them gently from side to side. “Okay, okay. I will come with you, if you want. But Ilyusha, what if he does not bring her? Do you want to give him the wrong idea about us? If he is–”
Ilya cut her off. “He can’t be . . . anything. You know that.”
“Hmm,” she said. “What I know is that you and Jane have been texting like giddy school girls for like seven years. I know that you come alive whenever Boston plays Montreal. I know that you have never gotten jealous over anyone before. And I know that people do not usually get to choose who they lo–”
Ilya reached up and shushed her mouth with two nicotine-stained fingers. “Sveta, no, enough. What I want does not matter.”
Svetlana bit his fingertips lightly and said, “Well, that is bullshit. I have heard you say a lot of stupid things, but–”
Ilya wiggled out of her embrace and hissed, “Sveta, he is probably going to fucking marry her. He is like that. Family matters to him.” Oh shit. He was really working himself up. “And in all these years, he has never had a girlfriend before. Now she is on TV wearing his fucking jersey to games. It must mean something.”
Svetlana had noticed that Hollander never showed up in paparazzi photos with women–it was part of why she had suspected Jane’s true identity. That combined with how squirrelly Ilya got every time Shane Hollander’s name came up. She would have to broach this next topic frankly.
“Have you considered that it might mean that he is . . . not into girls?” she asked. “I should not have to tell you this, but just because you have somehow never been fucked up about being queer–despite growing up in Grigori Rozanov’s house and being so fucked up about so many other things–but I hear that a lot of people experience this thing called ‘internalized homophobia.’” Svetlana said that last part in English–probably because she had learned of the concept here in America, not in Russia. “Maybe Rose Landry is his beard. Like you are asking me to do. Sort of.”
Ilya glared at her. “Is not like I can bring a guy to Florida to make him jealous,” he bit out. “And I asked if he liked girls! Last time he was here.”
Svetlana thought it was kind of depressingly hilarious that Ilya had been fucking this boy for close to a decade before asking him about something as basic as what flavor of queer are you? She bet he had not even used words like queer or gay or bisexual. Men were so fucking stupid sometimes. It was a miracle that any pair of them managed to communicate well enough to decide to gay marry each other. But she did not say any of that. Instead, she said, “Okay. And what did he say?”
Ilya sounded maybe a tiny bit sheepish when he replied, “He said something like ‘yeah, sure, of course.’”
Svetlana couldn’t help it. She snorted at that. “Ah yes. Sounds very enthusiastic and heterosexual to me.”
Ilya cracked a reluctant half smile and told her to shut the fuck up.
Svetlana did shut up for a minute while she thought about everything Ilya had said. And also about everything he had not said. She was quiet long enough that Ilya relaxed back against her body.
Svetlana was going to let it go. She really was. But first . . . “Okay, fine,” she said, lifting an imperious finger. “I am only going to say one more thing: you should probably actually fucking talk to him before you start shopping for wedding presents.”
Ilya groaned dramatically. “I told you. I tried talking to him! Last time, before he ran away and found a girlfriend. I asked him to spend the night. I made him food. I told him I liked him.” Oh god. The plaintive tone to Ilya’s voice was breaking Svetlana’s heart. She knew what a big deal it was for Ilya to ask for something that wasn’t sexual. To cook for someone and admit to experiencing an emotion. But how was a nice boy like Shane fucking Hollander, with his two living parents who showed up to almost all of his home games with bells on even though they lived in a different city, supposed to understand that? (Svetlana was not a stalker, but she noticed things. Especially things about hockey players. Especially really good hockey players that she suspected her best friend was in love with, okay.)
Ilya was still talking. “I told him about you–”
“Oh my god, Ilya. What the fuck did you say?”
Ilya got defensive. “I told him you were my friend, that I like you very much. Uh, that you are smart about hockey? That we fuck sometimes but you are too busy for me now, selling cars.” Ilya’s voice was getting louder the more words came out of his mouth. “I told him that we are not more than friends, okay? I told him.”
Svetlana sighed with her entire body. “Oh Ilya, he probably thought you were trying to tell him that he is just one of many. That you just want to be friends with him too.”
Ilya grunted. “You forget. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are not even allowed to be friends.” Svetlana wondered if he realized that he sounded like he was talking about fictional characters.
She butted her head against his shoulder in despair. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Come to Florida?” Ilya said, flashing his patented charming smile at her, but only at half-wattage.
“Okay, okay, fine.”
That was the thing about Ilya—when he actually did ask for something, it was very hard not to give it to him.
~
Ilya cursed himself for a million kinds of fool. Shane had cornered him in this out-of-the-way corner of the hotel bar where Ilya had been hiding, and yes okay, sulking, while Svetlana unpacked and showered and whatever. After a game of twenty questions, Ilya had finally figured out that Shane had not brought Rose Landry to All-Star Weekend and, in fact, was not dating her anymore because they were incompatible. This was wonderful! This was terrible. Because Ilya had dragged Svetlana all the way here and now he had to try and explain things to Shane very fast before he ran away again like a skittish deer.
Ilya snuck a brief text to Svetlana: Landry out of picture. STAY AWAY FROM BAR. For now.
Of course, Svetlana did not stay away. She appeared out of nowhere like a guardian angel with great hair and took the seat directly opposite Shane. Before Ilya could say anything at all, Svetlana thrust her right hand out at Shane. He took it automatically and shook.
“Shane Hollander,” she declared. “It is very nice to finally meet you. I am Svetlana, and I think you are the prettiest and best player in the MLH–and so does my friend Ilya, no matter what stupid shit comes out of his mouth. Also, I have never been his girlfriend and do not intend to be. It is important that you understand this, yes?” She leaned in towards Shane and emphatically whispered, “I am not your competition.”
Hollander stared at her with his mouth open like a fish.
Svetlana barreled on, as she tended to do. “And no, Ilya did not tell me about your”–she waved her hands in the air–“whatever. I figured it out because I am very smart and because he has been my best friend since we were four years old. I will keep your secret just like I have been keeping his all these years, okay?” Svetlana nodded to herself as if that settled everything, and as far as she was concerned, it probably did. “Okay, I am going away now. And Ilya, I promise I will still not fuck any of your teammates. Yours either, Hollander.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Actually, I will not fuck any hockey players this weekend. I will just wear my new bikini by the pool and make them a little crazy, maybe. Let them be jealous of Ilya for the wrong reason.” She laughed at her own wit and stood up to leave, waving goodbye cheerfully as she went.
Svetlana took all of three steps away and then turned right around and got back in Shane’s face, making excessive eye contact. “I like you, Shane Hollander, but I suggest that you be very careful with Ilyusha’s heart. Or you will be very sorry, I promise you.” And with that said, she actually left.
“Wow,” Shane said, looking shell-shocked.
Ilya kind of wanted to crawl under a rock and die there. He wanted to murder Svetlana for embarrassing him in front of the boy he liked. He wanted to hug her for being right about Shane and Rose. And for speaking English better than him, so maybe Shane would understand this time. (Someone should understand what was going on, since Ilya still didn’t.)
“I think that scary Russian woman just gave me a shovel talk,” Shane said with a bemused almost-smile.
“Shovel talk? What is shovel talk?” Ilya scrunched up his face. Stupid English words. “What is shovel?”
Patient, beautiful Shane explained right away. “A shovel is a tool for, like, digging holes. A shovel talk is when someone threatens to kill their friend’s, uh, boyfriend or girlfriend, if they hurt the friend.” Shane looked thoughtful. “And then bury them, I guess. In a hole. That they dug. With a shovel.”
“Oh,” Ilya said, the word boyfriend echoing in his brain like a rung bell. Once he processed the rest of Shane’s explanation, Ilya grinned tentatively. “Well, is true. She is my best friend. I think that is part of job description, yes?” He glanced at Shane’s face out of the corner of his eye. If Ilya looked at those freckles straight-on right then, he might explode from terrified happiness and relief.
Shane blushed and bit his bottom lip like he was trying not to laugh at Ilya. “So . . . what? You brought her here to protect you?”
“Something like that,” Ilya said, staring at Shane’s mouth. Shane could laugh at him if he wanted to. That would be okay.
“What room are you in?” Shane asked. “I think we should talk.”
“1217,” Ilya answered, by rote. Then he remembered, and grimaced. “But Svetlana is in same suite. Can we go to your room?”
Shane smiled, and Ilya felt like his heart might beat right out of his chest.
“It’s 1243," Shane said. "I’ll go first. See you there in fifteen to twenty.”
~