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When Ilya picks his phone up off the bartop, it’s definitely not for the first time that night. Nor will it be the last, if Shane’s silence is anything to go by. He knows Shane is pissed at him, probably for something stupid he said or did the last time they sexted. Or maybe for shit-talking Pike, again. Or maybe he isn’t pissed at him, and just doesn’t want to talk anymore. He could be ghosting him for good; their time seeing each other a few weeks ago being their last without Ilya even knowing.
Ilya hangs his head in defeat, blowing out a long breath as his head swims with thoughts. He sags further down into the uncomfortable bar stool he’s been parked at for the last hour or so. His team floats around him, trying to get drunk and forget the miserable game they just lost against Pittsburgh.
He normally wouldn’t be acting like this, really. But he didn’t play well in the game, he didn’t want to be at this dingy bar in downtown Pittsburgh, and fuck, he misses Shane. He knows he’s busy and that he doesn’t have a right to monopolize any of his time anyway. He should be finding a pretty girl, maybe one of the ones who have been unsuccessfully trying to draw his attention since he and his team walked in, and taking them back to his hotel room.
Every time he dares to look anywhere but the bartender or his phone, he catches one of their eyes. He tries to talk himself into them, but every time he thinks he might get up, the sight of freckles, short black hair, and glistening brown eyes flashes in his mind. He promptly looks down, mumbles out an order for another drink, and the cycle repeats.
He can hear Marleau coming closer before he sees him. His booming laugh and his heavy footsteps come to a stop when he positions himself against the bartop, to the left of where Ilya is moping.
“Rozy!” Cliff booms, standing far too close for comfort.
“Yes, Marley?” Ilya sighs, a headache forming at his temples.
He begins to register that he drank more than he thought he did, and this realization causes the room to spin as he looks up at his teammate.
“What’s up? Why have you been sitting here the whole night?” He asks, an honest-to-god frown forming on his face as he does so. “I know we had a rough game, but it wasn’t your fault, man. The guys are missing you out there.”
Before he can even think to stop himself, he blurts out, “I miss Jane.”
Thankfully, he still has some of his filter intact and remembered to use Shane’s code name. He knows by now that Marleau is familiar with Jane, if his endless chirping in the locker room is anything to go by.
Cliff’s eyes widen, probably also realizing shortly after Ilya did himself that he is drunker than he thought, and that he just admitted something he definitely shouldn't have. He takes a seat in the empty stool next to where he was sitting and reaches over to grip the back of Ilya’s stool before speaking.
“Oh, yeah? Montreal girl? I didn’t know it was serious between you two, Rozy.”
“It isn’t.” He puts his head back down before he says his next words, “But I want it to be. I do not think she wants the same. I miss… her.”
For all that Cliff teases and chirps, he knows where the line is. He knows how to cut it off when it’s necessary, for when he needs to be serious, and for when he needs to be a good friend. Ilya really shouldn’t be saying any of this out loud, but it’s too late for that, and he’s glad it’s Cliff sitting next to him.
“Have you talked to her about it? At all?”
“Of course not.” He scoffs and shakes his head before realizing this probably sounds ridiculous because no one else would have any idea who he is talking about. They don’t know why he can’t communicate that he wants something more.
Ilya is still glancing at his bent knees when he hears Cliff get up. He feels strong hands grabbing at his arms, pulling him out of his chair before he can even protest. Cliff keeps that grip as he walks him through the crowd of people. They pass Carmichael and St-Simons before they make it to the back exit, both of them glancing at Ilya, hoping he’ll be joining them on the floor.
“We’re going out for a smoke, boys! Be back in a few!” Cliff yells, too loudly in Ilya’s ear, but he doesn’t feel like protesting at the moment.
Before long, they are walking through the double doors marked with a red electric exit sign, both shuddering as they step out into the cold.
“It is fucking freezing, Marley. I don’t even have cigarettes; I could not find any places on the way to this stupid bar.”
“I know, dude. You told me already. Plus, I told you I was trying to quit. I didn’t actually want to smoke out here.”
Ilya’s confusion must be blatantly showing on his face, so Cliff answers his look with, “Call your Jane.”
“Fuck off,” he breathes out, “I cannot do that.”
“Why the fuck not?” Cliff stares back at him incredulously, as if he’s never had a relationship problem he couldn’t solve with a phone call. In reality, he probably hasn’t. That makes Ilya all the more weary.
“Come on, dude, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Ilya huffs out a humorless laugh as he runs through all the things that could go wrong. Shane could answer the phone and yell at him for calling. He could tell Ilya he was too much and not contact him until their next hookup. Or ever. He could not answer or even bring it up in the morning. Or not answer, and bring it up in the morning to ask what the hell he was thinking. If he does answer, Cliff could hear his voice through the phone, and their secret would come crashing down.
Without Ilya even giving him a response, Cliff starts to back away from where he was standing, moving closer towards the door with each step.
“Look, dude. You don’t have to call her if you really don’t want to. But I think you should.” Cliff shoots him a wide grin. “I’ve seen the way you look at your phone when you’re texting this girl. I’ve seen how you play our games against Montreal when you know you’re about to see her. Don’t let her go. I’ll be back inside if you need anything.” Without waiting any longer, he walks backwards into the doors until they open up, and he disappears back into the bar.
Ilya sighs and thumbs at his phone in his pocket, staring at the now closed door where music is still spilling out quietly. It takes him far less time than it should for him to give in, and he unlocks his phone, hovering over Shane’s contact before he even fully makes up his mind. He decidedly blames it on the numerous shots of shitty vodka from earlier.
He clicks the phone icon before he can think about it further, or before he can talk himself out of it. As he waits for either the dial tone or the sound of Shane’s voice, he walks further away from the exit and into the alley behind the bar. There’s nothing but a few motion-activated lights, a dumpster, and the ringing coming from his phone back here.
“Hello? Rozanov?” Shane’s voice rumbles out from his speakers.
He sounds tired, like he’d just woken up. It’s one of Shane’s tones of voice that he isn’t familiar with. He’s never been able to experience him after he’s slept. Ilya quickly glances at the time before answering Shane, and realizes it’s close to two for both of them.
“Hollander,” He breathes out, the relief of his answering probably being evident in the soft way he says his name.
“ ‘Time is it? What’s wrong?”
“It is 1:57. Sorry for waking you.”
“No, no. It’s fine. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine.”
“Why did you call?”
Ilya takes a minute before responding, deciding what he wants to stay. He could just tease Shane about his loss to Toronto yesterday. He could ask why he was asleep so early, but he already knows Shane’s bedtime. He quickly realizes he has no choice but to be honest.
“Do you not want to talk to me anymore?” He doesn’t know why this is the better option of what to say; he honestly thinks telling Shane that he missed him would have come off as less desperate.
“What? Why would you think that?”
“You have not answered any of my texts for hours.”
“Rozanov, we usually go weeks without talking to each other.”
He doesn’t mention how that hasn’t been the case recently, how they’ve started texting more frequently. It’s still unspoken how, sometimes, after seeing each other and not getting enough, they would sext in the days after. How, during off days, they started texting each other commentary on the games played. How, during practice, they would send each other chirps about some of their less competent teammates. How, sometimes, late at night, they would text about nothing and everything until they both drifted off.
“Yes. I know. This was stupid. I will let you go back to sleep.”
“Hey, no. I told you it was fine.” Shane must have seen the messages Ilya sent, “I didn’t see your messages earlier. We had an off day, and Hayden asked me to babysit so that he could take his wife out to dinner. Keeping up with the twins kept me really busy and gave me a horrible headache. I passed out pretty much as soon as I got home without looking at my phone.”
Now Ilya feels like even more of an idiot. Not only did he cross a boundary, but all of his overthinking earlier was truly for nothing. Shane was just perfect, he was a good friend, a good babysitter, and a good whatever-him and-ilya-are, still answering Ilya at 2 am even when he had been sleeping.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” There are many things he could be apologizing for. For waking Shane, for disrupting his sleep schedule. But they both know he’s apologizing for taking this too far, for stepping over the invisible line they’ve created. He’s apologizing because things aren’t meant to be this way. They aren’t meant to miss each other, not meant to reach out. They’ve established that things are different between them, that they both feel more than they let on. They have yet to acknowledge it again outside of that hotel room in Tampa. He’s doing it right now. For the first time.
“I am at a shitty bar in Pittsburgh. The team is inside, probably way too drunk, and ignoring that we have a game tomorrow. I… fuck. I missed you.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Only a little bit. Was too busy staring at my phone to drink too much.” He absolutely was drunk inside the bar, but he’s really only tipsy now, after his conversation with Cliff and the fear of his conversation with Shane.
“You missed me?”
“Yes. I thought you were ignoring me on purpose.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Do not know. I am glad you weren’t.” Shane doesn’t respond. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah, I think sleep helped.” As he says this, he yawns, but makes no move to get off the phone or go back to sleep.
“How were Pike’s kids?”
“They were great as always. A handful, though. They always have so much going on.”
Ilya laughs. “Do you want kids?”
Shane sucks in a breath. “I mean, yeah? I think so? With the right person, I would like one, maybe two.”
Ilya foolishly thinks of himself as the right person. He hopes Shane thinks of him as he gives his answer.
“Yes, me too.”
“You would be a good dad. You’re very patient, and kind, and passionate about what you love.”
The who you love stays unspoken. Ilya needs to change the topic of conversation now, before he does something stupid. Like telling Shane he loves him. Or falling to his knees on the dirty asphalt and begging Shane to have his babies.
“Who do you play tomorrow?”
If Shane notices his obvious diversion, or the fact that Ilya definitely has his schedule memorized, he doesn’t mention it.
“Ottawa, and then to the States. You?”
“Philadelphia. We see each other in two weeks, yes?”
“Yeah. Two more weeks.”
“Good.”
There is a brief silence, and he can hear Shane’s breath quicken before he speaks again. “I missed you, too, you know.” He breathes out what to anyone else would sound sort of like a laugh, but Ilya knows he’s admitting something, and he’s far too nervous to find any humour in it.
“I think I kind of always miss you.” Before Ilya can even respond, Shane starts making his goodbyes. “Okay. I should go. Afternoon game tomorrow, and I told Hayden we could get to the rink early.”
“Right. Yes. I have early flight.” Ilya wishes he could respond to what Shane said, but he doesn’t know what he can say without giving too much away. He knows Shane would rather forget he ever even uttered it in the first place.
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
His heart stutters at the use of his first name. It’s not the first time, but it isn’t a common enough occurrence for him to be used to it yet. He honestly doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.
“Goodnight, Shane.”
As the sound that signals the end of their conversation rings out, he walks back inside the bar, deciding it’s time for him to call it a night. He spots Marleau and walks up to him to tell him he’s gonna grab a cab and head back to the hotel.
Marleau winks at him, “You get everything with your girl figured out?”
“No, definitely not,” Ilya laughs loudly and unashamedly, and for the first time that night, he doesn’t feel dread after admitting that. He walks past a confused Marleau and back outside, through the front doors this time, and thinks about what he’s going to text Shane in the morning.