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Quinn makes it to the Olympics. A monumental accomplishment he can’t even enjoy because the ghosts are here and somehow worse in Italian.
His incredibly limited proficiency in French—his ability to stutter his way through a small introduction and to ask for the bathroom—does nothing to help him understand what exactly is being said. Which, you would think, would make things easier to ignore.
You’d be wrong.
Because he’s not the only one being hunted by souls locked in the mortal plane post-mortem. Ilya Rozanov is also on Team USA, and his mother is so incredibly happy to talk about her son’s love life.
(She’s been not so subtly haunting his narrative since his NHL debut in 2019.)
Quinn just wants to mind his own business, that’s all! He has no interest in knowing the personal details of his teammates' lives, or the exact moment they’re going to die, or any of the other juicy bits of insurance fraud filled information the ghosts are dying to share.
“You don’t want to go in there.” The ghost of a young girl says, with far too much glee.
Quinn knows the type. He’s seen his share of obsessed internet fans. He’s seen the twitter campaigns to matchmake. He recognizes the look in her eyes.
His hand hovers on the bathroom door. He hasn’t turned the handle. Inside something bangs, heavy and rhythmic. The sound is accompanied by a half-bitten, half-mumbled moan.
“I don’t want to go in here,” He repeats, under his breath and mostly to himself.
It’s an open not-secret, what goes on in the Olympic Village. Twitter is full of condom memes and international hook-up speculations. And there are other bathrooms. Yes, it’s in poor taste to use one of the public ones, but this one was secluded and Quinn can easily walk to the other end of the building and up a flight of stairs to get to another.
Besides, the girl is wearing a blood covered Boston Jersey. He can take an educated guess on who’s in there.
“What are you staring at?” Ilya asks. The demand in his voice makes Quinn flinch, hugging his stick tighter to his chest.
“He won’t hit you,” Mrs. Rozanov laughs. She’s sitting? In-corporatically hovering in the almost non-existent space behind them.
“Didn’t think that was an option,” he mumbles, a barely breathed whisper under his breath.
Ilya takes personal offense to seeing Quinn's mouth move and not hearing his answer. He knocks his shoulder non-too gently into him, pushing him directly against the plexiglass wall. “Excuse me.”
“Brian damage,” Quinn says. Fast. Ilya sounded angry and Jack is still on the ice and therefore incapable of playing buffer like he usually does.
“You need to look away, Moloko.” Irina taps his shoulder. He dutifully follows the direction of her finger, moving on from the way he’d been unapologetically staring at Ilya’s crotch to the safety of his feet instead.
Fuck.
He has to start registering where he’s looking before letting his eyes go out of focus. Or maybe he just needs to invest in some really dark sunglasses instead. Wait, he’s on to something. Yes. That's it! If he gets the darkest aviators available no one will know he’s looking into the void, and they’ll just assume he’s in his own head like everyone else.
Maybe all the pictures of him seeing ghosts will stop circulating and he can go back on twitter without seeing his face every few scrolls. That would be nice. He misses the days of being able to follow the NHL tag without the proof of his darkening eye bags staring him in the face.
Another hard shove knocks him out of his head. “Brain! Damage!”
Quinn puts more force into his words. He doesn’t like raising his voice, but he also just doesn’t know what to say. He wasn’t built for confrontation. He’s a defenseman.
“Everything good?” Scott asks, the godsend he is, rewarding Quinn’s minuscule deescalation attempts.
Scott’s attention makes Ilya full-body freeze. Quinn can feel the way he holds his breath and locks up. A disproportional reaction to how nice of a guy Scott Hunter usually is.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Mrs. Rozanov. “He is still pretending to be the closet, yes.”
Quinn doesn’t acknowledge that. He’s been burdened with terrible knowledge since he can remember. Ilya’s emotional baggage barely carries any weight in comparison to the fact that he’s known for years the sordid details of his situationship.
“That one kissed another boy on the T.V,” she continues, “he is just nervous about what the cameras will say.”
His default is usually just to ignore them. If he doesn’t respond, the more lively of the ghosts usually move on and he’s left with his permanent hockey partner—unnamed ungendered Victorian Child™. That doesn’t work with Mrs. Rozanov, though.
That would be too easy. His life is never that simple. No that would mean he could relax and not focus on stonewalling everything happening around him.
He does a loop during their scheduled open rink time, warming up his muscles and pointedly staying away from whatever is going on between Ilya and Shane Hollander. He doesn’t know why someone from the Canadian team is here, but there’s no rules saying he can’t be and it wouldn’t be his business if there was.
Hockey doesn’t feel like a sport you can cheat at. Even when the ghosts tell him which way to turn or show him figure skating moves, listening to them means he still has to execute the plays. So, it’s probably fine that a rival team member is watching. They’re not really practicing anything anyway.
He sees Ilya whisper something in Shane’s ear and decides that his feet are the most interesting thing in his vicinity. Whatever was said makes Italian ghosts explode into excited chitters. Victorian Ghost makes a gagging sound which is usually a good indication that Quinn wants nothing to do with it.
“They’re making bets about who’s going to win gold,” Mrs. Rozanov titters, barely holding in a laugh. At least she’s happy, Quinn can ignore a happy ghost a lot easier than he can a sad one. “Ilya said if he wins he wants Shane to make a video of him fu—“
Quinn banks a hard left, catching the end of his heel on his stick and eating shit. He can live with that. He can wait for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks, because the universe hates him and he’s landed directly at the two's feet.
“No comment.” Quinn’s not sure how long he was doing the stare thing for. He knows it’s unnerving, but he doesn’t care enough to stop.
Ilya laughs. It doesn’t sound mean, but they haven’t really talked since making the USA national team, so Quinn can’t say for sure it’s not mean spirited. He feels like he’s talked to the guy's mom enough to make an educated guess, though. “He is cooling down, yes?”
The pun is terribly executed, and Quinn can’t help but let out a small huff of a laugh when he takes the offered hand up.
“He’s such a polite boy,” Mrs. Romanov coos. She’s told Quinn more than enough details for him to doubt that. He shouldn’t know about the Mafia connections. Nothing good ever came from knowing about Mafia connections.
“Does he know he’s alive?” Shane asks, quietly to Ilya. Oops, Quinn wasn’t supposed to hear that. He doesn't know if he should answer.
But he’s used to that sort of thing. People ask it all the time. In interviews and online and in Buzzfeed articles. The truth is that it’s easy to forget.
He’s saved from awkward small talk and the possibility of accidentally calling in that favor Irina keeps hinting at as a reward for progress on the Hollanov front by Jack coming over. Between the two of them, his brother has the easier curse to bare. He’d gladly trade the demons that haunt him for any number of career limiting injuries the universe can throw up. He's an American. And he’s from Florida. And sometimes you have to suffer the consequences of a late 90’s strip mall psychic manifesting great success bought by a terrible burden.