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“Oh, hello there.”
The woman waiting for the elevator is middle-aged, elegant; well-heeled, clearly, in an understated way, and judging by the way her eyes light up when she sees him, a hockey fan. Ilya doesn’t usually mind being recognised; god knows it can be fun, but – please, he thinks, not tonight. Not now. The woman’s jaw is sharp, her eyes sharper still, and there’s something oddly familiar about her. Ilya’s keyed up, distracted, so it takes him a moment to realise that he recognises her too.
Fuck.
Of course he knows her: Yuna Hollander’s there at every event, front and centre, hardly leaves her son’s side. His mommy there to hold his hand, Ilya thinks, which would be kind of funny if he was saying it to Sveta, and not on his way upstairs right this minute, hoping to fuck Yuna’s son.
He gives her a tight smile.
“Oh, I’m trying to go down,” she says. Her own smile’s equally fleeting, and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“This is going up,” Ilya answers quickly, relieved. He points at the elevator ceiling to illustrate his meaning, the way he used to when he first came here – I would like table for two, he’d tell the waitstaff, mouth working carefully around the words, two fingers raised in hopeful offering.
“Right.”
She’s looking straight at him, through him maybe, like those witch-women from childhood tales, the kind who could list your sins without needing to ask. Ilya keeps his breathing steady, even as he presses back, flattening himself against the cool metal wall, body wound as tightly as the scarf round Yuna Hollander’s neck.
Why is she here?
“So,” Ilya says, a forced smile on his face.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, “well, I’m–”
The elevator doors shudder and start to close. Just for a second, Ilya can breathe.
But then, “oh!” she says, startled, getting her hand through the gap just in time. The doors jam around her forearm, then, horribly, slide back open. She steps forward, wedging her foot neatly between them, and extends her hand again. “I’m Yuna,” she says, eyes searching his face. “Yuna Hollander.”
“Yes,” mumbles Ilya. Her grip is firm and unyielding, where of course Ilya’s palm is warm, slick with stress. Weak, he thinks, his father’s voice, and tightens his hold in return. “Ilya Rozanov. Is good to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says, without letting go. The elevator doors close again, stopping as they meet the heel of her leather boot; she ignores them.
“I, uh,” says Ilya, lost for words. For English words, maybe. Let me go, madwoman, he thinks. Please.
Smiling, she does. “Ah, fourteenth floor,” she says, nodding up at the display. Her hair barely moves, it’s so perfectly set. “How odd. Shane’s on the fourteenth too.”
“Really.”
“Really. Guess they save the best view for the big names, huh?”
“I guess,” repeats Ilya, shortly. He’s not here to make small talk; especially not while up on the fourteenth floor – with the best view – Hollander’s waiting. He’s always on edge anyway, Hollander, and all this is still too fragile. Let him wait too long, and it might not happen. And here’s Ilya, stuck down on the sixth, getting cock-blocked by Hollander’s overinvolved mother.
“Hey,” Yuna says slowly, clever eyes coming alight. “Here’s a fun idea.”
Ilya doubts it. “What idea?”
“Well.” She pauses, calculating. Dread coils in Ilya’s gut. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Come… with you?”
“Come and have a drink with me, I mean. With Shane.”
Ilya’s heart leaps into his throat. “But – but you are going down,” he croaks.
“Oh, pfft. David will understand. What’s more important than hockey, right?” She laughs lightly as Ilya’s heart picks up pace, and he sees that somehow her phone’s already in her hand. Her lips are a firm line; there’s no escape.
“But – but your son. Maybe he is busy,” Ilya says, loudly. She’s still holding the doors open with her foot; they give another clunk of protest. “Maybe he make plans already.”
“Oh, Shane’s not busy,” she says, tapping away. “He’ll be getting an early night.”
“Maybe–” Ilya tries again, “maybe I get an early night.”
Her gaze flicks up to him then, sharp and knowing. “I won’t keep you long,” she tells him. “It’ll be so good for you two to get to know each other.”
“I know Hollander already. We meet many times. We just shoot commercial together, like–”
She waves him away again. “Yes, yes. Hollander and Rozanov, I know. Preseason hasn’t even started yet and already it’s the greatest rivalry since Ovechkin-Crosby.” She raises an eyebrow. “But you don’t know him, do you? You’ve shaken hands with him a couple of times, and now you’ll spend the next decade in faceoffs and slamming each other into the boards. At least this will give you some ammo for the shit talking.”
I’d rather slam him somewhere else, Ilya thinks, balanced on the thin edge of hysteria. He can’t do anything now: she’s already stepping into the elevator. The doors slide shut with a soft whir of relief. “Come on, Rozanov,” she says, with a light touch to Ilya’s arm. “I won’t tell anyone.”
***
Ilya isn’t stupid. People make that mistake sometimes: his English, perhaps, or his disdain for American small-talk, or maybe just the big dumb jock stereotype. But Ilya’s not dumb, and he’s not naïve. As a child, still, and alone, he’d dragged himself out of that house, out of that country, without looking back. Ilya’s always understood the ways of the world; this, he sees clearly too. This brisk, no-nonsense woman is not leading him to Hollander’s hotel room for a nice chat over a glass of whatever the fuck good-boy Hollander drinks. She’s testing Ilya, probing for a hairline crack in the ice, something she can get her neatly done fingernails beneath.
Ilya understands. She’s Hollander’s mother, after all.
None of that accounts for the way his heart beats high and fast his throat as he follows her down the corridor, dragging his feet towards the door with the big shiny fourteen-ten.
Without preamble, without even checking Ilya’s still there, Yuna knocks.
The door comes open in a second, like maybe Hollander was waiting behind it. He looks good, of course, in a dark fitted t-shirt Ilya would love to peel off him. He’s pale, his hair a little damp at the temples, but for a split second his face is bright with anticipation.
But then – “Shane,” says Yuna warmly, and Ilya sees from his distance the way Hollander’s brow furrows, anxiety morphing to confusion, to concern. Perhaps even – though this might just be in Ilya’s imagination – to disappointment.
“Mom,” Hollander says, “what are you–?” His gaze, darting around abstractly, lights on Ilya. He pulls back, jaw tensing. “And what’s he–?”
“Look who I’ve brought,” Yuna says, jauntily, though she can’t have missed the way Hollander’s blanched even whiter, shrunken down against the doorframe. His eyes are horribly wide, filled with some mixture of panic and betrayal, and still fixed on Ilya.
“What is this,” Hollander says, his voice strained. He looks back at her then, finally, so that Ilya can move again. “Mom, what is this?”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” she says, playful. “We bumped into each other downstairs, and I thought it might be nice for you boys to get to know each other better.” She shoos him inside, then follows, tutting. “Wow. You really keep it dark in here.”
“I know Rozanov just fine, Mom. I really don’t think this is–”
“Hello,” interrupts Ilya. “I’ve come for a drink.” He nods at Hollander, gives his arm a quick squeeze in passing. Hollander’s face flushes, and he looks up and down as the door closes, taking in the jacket that had been the second or third Ilya had tried, his best Adidas sneakers, the smile that he hopes reads as reassuring. The hotel room’s a mirror image of Ilya’s own, the same dull modern art on the wall, the same coffee machine on the side, the same carpet beneath their feet. Ilya looks down at it and thinks in a perfect world, Hollander would already be on his knees.
But it’s not a perfect world, this world where Yuna Hollander’s already sat at the table, jacket draped over, one leg crossed over the other, watching them curiously. She indicates the chair across from her for Ilya, and Hollander’s left to sit on the edge of the bed, hands neatly in his lap, socked feet tapping a silent rhythm against the carpet.
Yuna sniffs. “Shane, honey. Are you wearing cologne?”
“No,” Hollander says quickly, and Ilya exhales shakily, fighting hysteria once more.
“Well,” Yuna says, clearly disbelieving, then leans in, brow furrowed. “And is that – Shane, did you shave tonight?”
Hollander makes a pained little noise. Enough is enough, Ilya thinks, and clears his throat. “Drink?” he asks, voice light. Hollander shoots him an odd sideways glance.
Ilya was right, of course. Yuna offers Ilya the drinks menu, pours herself a glass of red, Hollander a soda – without asking – and then, over the sharp stink of mini-bar vodka, the grilling begins. He tries to keep things vague: hockey school, junior league, the kind of stuff anyone could read on his team bio. The kind of stuff she probably already knows.
Because Yuna Hollander knows.
Ilya’s mother had loved hockey because she loved Ilya. If chess had been his calling, she’d have been front row for every match there too: fur coat draped over her shoulders, the air rich with her perfume, her soft, patient smile waiting for him every time he looked up. She had always been there, always the most beautiful person in the room: but it was him she followed, not hockey. Yuna’s like Sveta, like so many of the people in Ilya’s life now: she lives and breathes the game. Her affection for her son is obvious, but it’s underscored with a sharp edge of expectation. For his part, Hollander stays quiet; Ilya longs to look at him, but it’s hard enough to keep up with all Yuna’s questions, her fast, colloquial English demanding his constant attention.
As the vodka begins to do its job, Ilya throws in some anecdotes: messing with his coaches, playing in snowstorms, that time in third class when the ice on the canal was too thin for their epic Dynamo vs CSKA showdown, and he’d fallen through up to his waist. He doesn’t mention the beating his father had given him when he’d arrived home damp and shivering, boots completely ruined, stick trapped somewhere beneath the ice.
“Rozanov?”
“Sorry?”
Yuna smiles, thin-lipped. “I was just asking what you thought of the Admirals’ chances this year.” Her eyes flick down to Ilya’s crucifix, which he’s playing with absentmindedly, sharp edges pressed tightly between thumb and forefinger. He drops it.
“Depends,” he replies, easily. “They reset their defensive system, so pressure on goalies should be less. But adjustment takes time. They have deep bench, though. And Hunter, too, obviously. So.”
Her smile says he’s answered correctly, but before she can open her mouth to respond, her phone rings on the table. “Excuse me,” she says, then takes the call with a sharp “yes?”
Ilya uses the excuse to get a proper look at Hollander. He’s barely said anything – has barely needed to – but he’s been shifting around a lot. Squirming, almost. Had he prepped, Ilya wonders. Is he sitting there, across from his mother, all lubed up for Ilya? Hollander catches him staring, looks away, ears turning pink. It seems unlikely, Ilya concludes. Probably, he’s just nervous. Hollander’s a nice boy. He’s not Sasha.
“Yes, David, that Rozanov,” Yuna says into her phone, gazing absently at Shane. “How many Rozanovs do you know?” There’s a lengthy reply – Ilya pours out a second tiny vodka, Shane clears his throat – and then she exhales a laugh. “Just because – no, he doesn’t mind–”
She stands, hand over the receiver, giving Ilya a tight smile. “Excuse me, I’m just going to take this,” she says, heading for the bathroom. There’s a sharp click as the lock turns.
“Don’t say anything. Please.” Hollander leans forwards, eyes wide and wild, getting right into Ilya’s space. His forehead’s glistening with sweat, though the scent’s masked by ginger ale and good cologne.
“What?”
“She doesn’t know,” he says, the words muffled by the hand that’s covering his face. “Not that I’m – not that there’s really – look. Just. Please.”
Ilya frowns, taken aback. “That is not,” he says. “That is not – Hollander. I would not do that.”
“No?” Hollander says. “Because when you said you’d knock, I wasn’t expecting you to bring my mom along too.”
“I know. I–”
“–all this, Rozanov. The shower, everything – were you messing with me?” His mouth twists miserably, hands clenching around the bedclothes. He looks dreadful, pitiful, and Ilya swallows down a sick surge of guilt.
“Hollander,” he says in a low voice, pulling the big chair up closer to the bed. “Hollander. Fourteen-ten, right? I was on my way, alone. Then your mom, she gets in elevator too. She will not leave me alone.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, Hollander,” says Ilya. He reaches out, thumb on Hollander’s chin, one finger resting just beneath, then tilts his face up until he meets Ilya’s gaze. “I did not bring your mother here, okay?”
Hollander’s shoulders loosen. “Alright,” he says. “Alright. Good.”
“Good?” echoes Ilya softly, softening his grip, letting his hand slide up slowly until he’s cradling Hollander’s jaw in his palm. Hollander shivers, leaning into the touch.
“We’ll get room service then,” comes Yuna’s voice from the bathroom. Hollander freezes, his eyes huge, almost dazed. “I don’t know, David,” she continues, echoey, “whatever they have.”
Ilya wants to laugh. He bites his bottom lip; when Hollander’s eyes flick to it, something dips low in his stomach. “She was right,” Ilya says, barely a whisper. He runs a thumb over Hollander’s cheek. “You shaved.”
Hollander’s barely breathing. “Shut up, Rozanov.”
“For me. Missed a spot though, I think,” Ilya says, as the little patch of stubble rasps beneath his fingernail, obscenely loud in the tense sliver of space between them.
“It wasn’t for you,” Hollander mutters, jaw tensing beneath Ilya’s fingers.
“No?”
“No.”
Ilya leans in, other hand planted on the bed beside Hollander’s thigh. It puts Hollander off balance. “Say that again,” Ilya says.
“It wasn’t for you,” Hollander replies, voice low and rough, and in response Ilya pushes his thumb straight past that stubborn lower lip. Hollander gives a little jerk, inhales sharply around it. His eyes dart over to the closed bathroom door.
“Alright, alright,” Yuna says impatiently from within, “a Cobb salad, then. But dressing on the side–”
Ilya presses down on Hollander’s tongue, firm, until his bottom teeth dig into the meat of Ilya’s thumb. Hollander’s eyes are big and shiny, and he’s gone still, obliging, his mouth slack. Ilya withdraws his thumb, ever so slowly, then thrusts it back in. The slick sound it makes goes straight to Ilya’s groin, as Hollander purses his lips on instinct, swallows down saliva, like he’d know exactly what to do. Ilya’s cock’s firming up, far too obvious in these tight pants, and fuck, he thinks, wondering at the mouth on this beautiful man, they really do need to stop now, before it’s too late.
“I’ll be down soon,” says Yuna briskly, wrapping up the call as if on cue. Hollander pulls away, leaving Ilya’s thumb suddenly cold, and gets up for a second to adjust his trousers. Ilya shuffles his chair back into its place beneath the table. When he looks up Hollander’s staring at him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “About tonight. She probably thinks all this will give me some kind of advantage, I–” He pauses, rolls his eyes. “She means well. Just – moms, you know?”
A few years ago, Ilya would have felt that like a kick to the gut. Now, he just shrugs. “Is okay, Hollander. I understand. You need all her help, I know this.”
Hollander kicks him in the shin; grinning, Ilya returns the favour. Faking distress, Hollander clutches his leg, and that’s when the bathroom door opens.
“Right,” Yuna says, regarding them sternly. “I hope you two were making nice.”
There’s nothing like the disapproving gaze of Yuna Hollander to kill a burgeoning erection. When Ilya wipes off his thumb on the leather arm of the chair, it leaves a damp trail.
“Of course we were, mom,” says Hollander, sitting up straight. “Only – only Rozanov was just saying that… well, he’s got to leave.”
Yuna’s eyebrows fly up. “So soon?” she says, eyes back on Ilya.
“He needs to call his–”
“Brother,” Ilya finishes quickly.
“Your brother,” she says, settling back down into her chair. “Is he in Russia?”
It’s the middle of the night in Russia right now, Ilya doesn’t say. I’d never call my brother again, if I could help it, he doesn’t say.
“Yes,” he says instead. “He’s just had a baby. Baby girl.”
Her smile deepens, eyes softening and crinkling at the edges. “Oh no, really? So sweet.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, encouraged, “is very sweet. I talk to her on videocall, so she know me.” He spreads his hands wide, carefully assembling an expression of earnest fondness, the kind a doting relative might wear. Holding the smile makes his cheeks ache. “Am Uncle Ilya.”
“Ah, Shane, isn’t that just lovely?”
“Lovely,” echoes Hollander, tapping his fingers on the soda can.
“See, Shane,” she says briskly, “he’s a puppy dog really. Uncle Ilya. Now aren’t you both so glad we did this?”
They nod in silent unison.
“And Ilya, first time you play the Centaurs, you should come over for dinner. My husband makes a pretty mean spaghetti.”
Not in a million years, thinks Ilya, but he nods politely anyway. “Thank you, Mrs Hollander.”
“Yuna, please,” she says, all teeth.
Ilya stands, finally dismissed, and Hollander does too. “I’ll see him out, Mom,” he says, and suddenly they’re back out in the corridor.
“I’m sorry,” Hollander says again, pulling the door half-closed behind him. “I could have got her to leave, maybe, but–”
“It’s okay, Mr Family Man,” Ilya says, which earns him an amused glance. “I understand. Next time.”
“Next time?” He looks so pleased, so nakedly hopeful, it’s almost unbearable.
“I’ll be back in Montreal in a few weeks,” Ilya replies, He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
Hollander’s brow furrows. He glances back into the room, as though his mother might be spying on them through the inch-wide crack in the door. It’s not impossible, Ilya thinks.
“You have phone?” he says, impatient. “Give.”
Rolling his eyes, Hollander hands it over, and Ilya taps in his number. He thinks for a second, then saves it under Lily.
“So, what’s my name going to be?”
Hollander’s got a finger between his teeth; Ilya wonders if it’s deliberate.
“Jane,” he says.