Archive of Our Own ^beta

—

August, by the lake: thick, syrupy heat that pools in Ilya’s lower back with nowhere to go, the ringing noise of late summer crickets filling the space around him, the rustle of trees above. A duck descends on the water and sends ripples out to where he lies on the floating dock, feet and ankles submerged, eyes closed, body facing the sun. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he comes down from his swim, the one he does every morning, and the warmed wood of the dock feels good against his cool skin.

A fly lands on his arm. He does not swat it away. Instead, he focuses on staying completely, utterly still, slowing until everything is deep and quiet. The sun dries his hair and naked body, and he knows he will get admonished later for forgoing sunscreen, as usual.

The closest neighbours to the cottage are half a kilometre of dirt road through the forest away, and sometimes Ilya can hear their children screeching and laughing across the water, but not today. Today it is peaceful, and so beautiful, out here, towering evergreens and thin spindly birches reflecting on the glittering lake.

He feels like he is holding his breath.

The Foundation’s last summer camp of the season ended two days ago, a crop of exuberant and endearingly clumsy U10s, all with parents utterly convinced their child will be the next big thing in hockey. Their ticket to fame and fortune. The truth is, even at that age, Ilya can tell the wheat from the chaff, and like chaff, most will be tossed to the winds of averageness before they turn 15. The next camp isn’t until spring, and until then Ilya’s role in the Foundation will go mostly dormant, save for a few ritzy galas and media appearances Yuna will orchestrate.

What are you planning in your retirement? they’ve all asked him, the journalists and fans and coaches and teammates. Nevermind that he isn’t officially retired at all, fuck you very much.

Nothing, he told them all. I plan to relax now that I’m not sharing the weight of an entire fucking hockey franchise on my shoulders.

Only he did not anticipate this: this taut feeling of anticipation he can’t shake, the crest of a hill he can’t reach, his shoulders bereft. Team training camp should be starting in a month. He will not be there. For the first time in his life, there is no hockey, no uncertainty, no cross-continent travel, no training schedule, no gruelling 82 games a year, not counting playoffs or Olympic years. Nothing. There is nothing.

18 years is a long time. Half his life, fuck. 2009 feels both incredibly far away and like it was just yesterday. He was so young and excited for it all. The newness of America, his first apartment away from the watchful gaze of his father, the world wide open to him. The first time he went to the grocery store he brought Svetlana with him to translate products he didn’t understand. She laughed because he bought three different kinds of Pop-Tarts and a Babe Ruth candy bar, and that night they fucked for the first time, sugar still sweet on his tongue. She told him about Grindr, a new smartphone app for men. He loved Boston and its easy anger, its endless dive bars, its religious devotion to sports. The city was the stuff of dreams for an athlete like him, a child starved for attention with an ego to match his talents. The people loved him, and he was their boy king.

Ilya breathes heavily and opens his eyes, turning over onto his stomach and rising to his feet with some difficulty. The air feels heavy and hot. Maybe there is a storm coming, he thinks. His left knee was aching this morning when he woke up, which would indicate some kind of weather, but then again, when is his knee ever free of pain anymore?

His catalogue of scars and injuries is extensive, as is that of most professional athletes in such an intoxicatingly violent sport. What’s a few missing teeth and sprains in exchange for making it to the show? That glamourous, dirty, wonderful, painful show? That dream of children across the world, little Ilyas tottering in their tightly laced skates, discovering the joys of falling on hard ice and getting up again, that rush of applause and cheers? Sinking a puck into the net before anyone even noticed he’d skated circles around them?

The smell of it, God. The sweat, and the rubber floor mats, with the underlying clean, almost medical scent of ice. Popcorn and spilled $19 beer. When he was a kid, the Zambonis were powered by diesel and still now when he smells it he is back in his first home arena, 10 years old, already dreaming of becoming a star, a famous hockey prodigy, and even then the dream felt realer to him than almost anything else.

Ilya has been spoiled with the present. Eat, sleep, train, play, win, fuck, repeat. Now, untethered to the present, he finds himself at a loss. Like his arms are reaching out for something that isn’t there. Why retire? Had his well of talent and ego run dry? Surely he had more in him to give! But it wasn’t just a sprain this time, it was a complete tear of his MCL, in Buffalo of all stupid places, and it wasn’t something he could skate through. If he was younger, maybe he would have time to heal and play some more, but at his age… Officially, he is on long-term injury reserve, meaning if he does he heal, he could be back on the roster, provided the Cens clear the cap space for his salary. He’s not hopeful, either way. They’ve made some expensive trades in the off-season due to his absence, and anyway, he limps now, maybe permanently. The physiotherapists and doctors won’t say for sure. He is cautious on the ice during summer camps, and has given over the more hands-on duties to Shane and the other instructors. He does the team building and strategizing sessions now, trying to teach plays to kids whose thoughts are already mostly taken up by cute girls and boys who won’t text them back.

He slowly climbs the hill to the house, and Shane steps out onto the deck to stare at him. Anya’s head peeks out of the patio door but her aging body stays firmly inside the cool air-conditioned environment.

“Water warm?” Shane asks when Ilya gets close enough. His eyes are crinkled in a smile, laugh lines splayed out on both sides of his face. Ilya takes this offering of peace with surprise — they have been circling each other for days, uncertain what their new now is. Just last night Shane snapped at him for swatting Shane’s ass while he was loading the dishwasher, but like, how could Ilya not? This predictably devolved into a childish argument about who had to take out the garbage and who had to clean out the fridge until they were both huffy and annoyed. It is like they are living together for the first time again — and maybe they are. Trying to find space within each other for domesticity while balancing a life in the harsh, intoxicating spotlight of fame. The difference is Ilya no longer feels crushed by the expectation of a happy gay role model relationship while privately struggling to keep his voice down during fights so he doesn’t remind himself too much of his father, and Shane no longer tries to schedule Ilya’s days like the fucking hockey military. They’ve both gotten better with each other — most of the time.

“Yes,” Ilya says, “you should come with me next time.”

Shane smiles. “Maybe I will.”

“I’m going to shower. You coming?”

“Nah, go ahead. I want to work out after my meeting.”

Shane has meetings. Shane has projects. Shane has filled his days with Zoom calls and paperwork and podcast appearances and interviews. He is investing in startups, renovating properties, and creating scholarship funds for underprivileged Asian-Canadians. He is expanding the Irina Foundation and cold-calling former players for donations. Who would turn him down? He is Shane fucking Hollander, and he’s been kept busy or kept himself busy every day since he could first hold a hockey stick. Sometimes Ilya doesn’t know if it’s because he likes it or if he doesn’t know any other way to be.

And Shane will be at training camp in a month. He has met with all the rookies and the coaching team, analyzing strengths and weaknesses and powerplay configurations until he mumbles about penalty kills in his sleep. His complex colour-coded spreadsheets bewilder Ilya, who never needed such things to know which of his guys have a weak forecheck or a save goal per cent that needs work. He knew their names, their kids’ names, where they grew up and what their favourite Timbit flavour was. Shane does too, just in an exceptionally organized fashion. Where Ilya is all heart, Shane is all brain. Well, brain and body — a perfectly calibrated, deliciously coachable body.

Ilya kisses his husband gently and goes inside. He is trying to be good about it. It would have been selfish to ask Shane, indisputably the best player of his generation, to quit before his time is up. Ilya may be a bitch, but he is not cruel. While some younger players have been impressive — Celebrini, McDavid, the like — Shane is still averaging 100 points a season. Ovechkin and Hunter didn’t even retire until their 40s. Still, somehow, Shane offered. Now would be a good time to start those mandatory parenting classes, he said, if we want to adopt in the next few years. But Ilya said no, not because he couldn’t think that far ahead, but because he hasn’t been able to say yes to that at all yet. The relief on Shane’s face was unmistakable.

The years stretch before him, interminable and difficult to imagine. Years without hockey.

Ilya cannot stop thinking: I am the same age my mother was when she died. I am the same age my father was when he married her. Every day I wake up and I remember this. I will never forget this. I will never forget you. Why did you forget me? What if everyone else forgets me like you did?

—

In the shower he calls Marly. Ilya usually does his best thinking in the shower, and he does not want to do much of that right now, so Marly, for whom thinking is a herculean effort at the best of times, is his best option if he wants to stop his thoughts from tumbling unproductively around and around in his head.

“Bro, I was just gonna call you,” Marly says in lieu of hello after the first ring. “This is fucking crazy, how did you know?”

Marly was traded to Vegas after a long string of shitty losses not long after Ilya left the Raiders, and retired at the end of his contract last year. He travels between hot and sunny Vegas and hotter and sunnier destinations year round, and remains, to Ilya’s knowledge, profoundly enthusiastic about life. It’s around 8am in Vegas, but Marly was always an early riser, even after their many late nights pushing the boundaries of their curfew, so Ilya doesn’t feel bad about calling him so early.

“I know everything,” Ilya says. “Don’t you remember this?”

“Russian bastard,” Marly says, fondly. “How’s the leg?”

“Strong enough to kick your ass.”

“That bad, huh,” Marly says sagely.

“My leg is shit. I do not want to talk about it right now,” says Ilya.

“I get it, man. Hey, are you in the shower right now?”

“Marleau, you’ve seen me naked hundreds of times. Don’t get hard about it now.”

“Dude, no worries, you should have seen the chick I picked up last night, oh my God. Crazy huge tits. Insane mouth. You would have loved her.”

Ilya shakes his head even if Marly can’t see, smiling. He remembers Marly at 18, all gangly limbs and patchy beard, a head taller than Ilya, navigating this city and trying to find ways to get booze for them both without their coach or captain finding out. Marly loves hockey for what it gave him: a certain recognition, a lot of money, easy brotherhood, and a steady stream of hot girls lining up for a chance to be his puck bunny du jour. If Ilya was known as the team slut, it was because he wanted it that way: an easy cover story and a way to keep his name on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Not that all the stories were untrue, obviously, but Marly was the real deal.

“Where did you pick her up?”

“Her house, man,” says Marly. Ilya barks out a laugh and sets his phone on a ledge in the shower so he can lather up. “We’re like, dating and shit.”

“And shit?” Ilya asks. “You are 36 years old.”

“Who are you, my mother?” Marly says.

“I take this as a compliment. Your mother is a very nice lady.”

“I know, I know, she’s just been on my case lately, and—”

Ilya washes himself to the sound of Marly’s chatter and gossip. It is soothing, listening to the comings and goings of another man’s life from a distance, only needing to rouse himself every once in a while for some half-hearted chirps that are easily brushed off by a long, comfortable friendship. He takes his time in the shower, exfoliating and shaving with Shane’s luxurious skin care products, spoils from last season’s newest brand deal.

“Still in the shower, dude? I can let you go,” Marly says, after 20 minutes of this.

“I am shaving my balls,” Ilya says. It’s true, and Marly definitely knows it, but he laughs anyway.

“Ah,” he says. “Hollander likes it smooth, does he?”

“He likes everything I do,” Ilya says, but he thinks it may have come out a tad defensively, so he adds, “he is not an idiot.”

“Fuck no, he’s a genius. Did you see how he played in that game against the Flyers last season? I didn’t even know he had the puck when he scored that last one off Haas, it was so fast. And the Flyers were on the powerplay. Fucking embarrassing.”

Of course he saw the fucking game. It’s been top of the highlight reels that have been running periodically on TSN now that the season is over and they need something to fill their airtime. Also, he was there.

“I was there,” he says. “You know this?”

“In the fucking sin bin, bro,” Marly says. He’s right, of course. “Nasty crosscheck. Just gorgeous.”

“Eh, what can I say,” Ilya says, “I know what gets you hot.”

Done with his grooming, he shuts off the shower and grabs his phone before stepping out onto the cool tiles of the bathroom. The cold ceramic feels refreshing. Often they find Anya dozing in the bathroom when it gets too hot outside, snuffling sweetly in her sleep.

“Things still good with Hollander?”

“Yes,” Ilya says quickly. “Always.”

“I just meant—”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says.

“I read about it online,” Marly says. “He signed the contract extension.”

“Didn’t know you could read.”

Marly ignores him. “You got any plans?”

“No plans,” Ilya says. He stops towelling himself off and huffs. “Wiebe wants me for Assistant Coach. I think—”

It’s true: the Cens have asked him to stay with them. The job is posted, but he’s who they want, and he’s who Captain Hollander wants, too. But Ilya doesn’t know if he can. Want it, that is. Or watch his team from the bench in a stuffy suit with no number on his back.

He doesn’t finish his sentence because he has nothing more to say.

“Man, seriously?” Marly says. “That’s awesome. Think they’d let you board with the C every night? They owe you.”

Ilya laughs, a stark sound he wasn’t expecting echoing in the bathroom. “Probably. I don’t know. I think they would give me whatever I want,” he says.

He made that team, rebuilt it from the ice up, game by miserable game. Without him, they would have nothing. No playoffs, no Cup, and certainly no Shane Hollander. The City of Ottawa itself should have given him its key for all the wins, attention and business he brought to it.

He gave and they took. He does not want to count everything he’s lost.

“You should take it,” Marly says. “You’d get to tell your boy what to do all the time. Like, professionally. Kind of sexy, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Ilya says, still smiling because the man really has no idea the kind of telling Ilya has done to Shane, “but I will take it into consideration.”

“Oh bro, I think my girl is waking up,” Marly says. “I gotta go. You good?”

“I’m good,” Ilya says. He throws his towel in the hamper. “Big tits have a name, by the way?”

“You’re never gonna fucking guess this,” Marly says. “Her name is Marly.”

—

His knee was right, about the storm. By noon it is humid and oppressive, calm in the eerie way it gets out here alone. Ilya isn’t sure if he’s ever gotten used to the silence, heavy like an old worn blanket. Not a silence devoid of noise, but just the opposite: so much teeming, chittering life, all speaking a language he cannot understand. Shane teases him and calls him a city boy, as if Mr. Canada himself didn’t grow up in the country’s gleaming capital, something straight out of a corny tourism brochure. Though it does get pretty quiet when the streets clear out around 5pm every weekday, all the government officials leaving for their boring bilingual families in the suburbs, rushing to get home and heat up some frozen wings and pizza so they can watch the Centaurs fight for a few points from the comfort of their La-Z-Boys.

In a month they will leave this place and go back to the city, no matter what Ilya chooses to do. Lock it up for the season and go back to their luxury high-rise condo overlooking the Ottawa River, just before the trees lining the streets start their show of autumn transformation.

Ilya rushes to pick up some things left outside before the rain: a forgotten pair of flip-flops, a set of barbecue tongs, a citronella candle burned down halfway, a book about maps Ilya bought Shane for his birthday. He is careful with these tiny miscellanies, this undeniable proof of life. I am here! they say. I exist! Even when you are gone, you will have left your mark on me like I have marked you!

When he goes back inside he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He tidies the living room aimlessly, though his knee really is sore and he knows he should just rest it. Instead he winces into the kitchen, rummaging for Advil and last night’s leftovers. On the fridge is more evidence of cohabitation, grocery lists and photos held up by the gaudy magnets he insists on buying whenever they visit somewhere new — the latest from Barcelona, a sparkly flamenco dancer proudly proclaiming Kiss me, I’m Spanish!

In Spain nobody knows who he is.

__

Shane has left his phone in the kitchen to go work out in their basement gym, because Shane does not listen to music while he exercises. Ilya is fascinated by this, as he is, of course, fascinated by most things Shane does. No music, no podcasts, and, as Shane has explained to him many times, no phone calls or emails for at least an hour, which seems to be the primary benefit. In exchange, Ilya has explained to him the virtues of Airplane Mode, but Shane will not hear of it.

It is therefore not a surprise when Shane’s phone starts buzzing just as Ilya is settling at the table with his lunch with an ice pack around his knee and Anya at his feet. Hayden Pike, it says. Shane has everybody in his phone with their first name and last name, even his husband, except, for some reason, David, who is just Dad.

Ilya picks up the phone.

“Hello, this is Hooters, would you like to make a reservation?” he says. Pike huffs a laugh.

“Oh fuck off,” Pike says. “Where’s Shane?”

“Downstairs lifting more than your entire body weight,” Ilya says.

“Probably true, my man’s jacked,” says Pike. “I just wanted to congratulate him on the contract extension.”

Ilya grunts. “I will pass this along.”

“No need to be cranky about it,” Pike says. “I’ll call him back later.”

He and Ilya have become cautious friends, or at least civil colleagues, on account of Pike’s work coaching at the Game Changers camps, and years spent in each other’s orbit. They may never like each other much but can spend time together now without it coming to blows — and Ilya loves Jackie and the kids, of course. Thank God they mostly got her looks.

“I am not cranky about it,” Ilya says.

“Sorry, I mean, you’re just a ray of fucking sunshine.”

“Finally, he gets it!” crows Ilya.

Still, neither can pass up a chance to rile up the other. It would be weird if they did.

“Yeah, yeah. Cens hire anybody for that coaching job yet?”

“I am not human resources,” Ilya says. He moves the ice pack from one side of his knee to the other. Outside the sky is getting dark, the lake reflecting a moody grey. “Why, do you want it?”

“God, no,” Pike says. He snorts. “Anyway, I’m not moving my family again. We’re fine where we are.”

More ripples created by Shane and Ilya’s defection from their alma maters: Pike was traded first to Seattle, then to Salt Lake City, before finally settling in Calgary for one final season before retirement. Well, that’s just life, Ilya supposes. Life and hockey.

Alberta is a province with a sky so big it can swallow you whole. Ilya and Shane visited last summer, for once not as players but as tourists, and returned with a magnet of a cowboy on a bucking bronco, YYC emblazoned on its saddle.

“Good decision,” Ilya says, “I do not want to see you in my city more than I have to.”

“Your city, eh,” Pike says. “I thought it was a tiny backwater with no sex appeal.”

Ah, yes. Ilya may have once said that.

“I never said that.”

In the background Ilya can hear a child shrieking, and another yelling for their mother, some laughter and music. Pike’s twins are older now, practically teenagers, and were impressive at the last U13 camp, as promising a pair of defensewomen as Ilya’s ever seen. Pike nearly hit him when Ilya told him he was shocked, considering their father.

“Please. We all know Ottawa isn’t your style.”

“My style,” Ilya repeats, his voice a warning.

“One sec, let me just — okay, it’s quieter now,” Pike says. Ilya hears a door close and the happy familial noises fall away. “Listen, you and I both know Shane has a few more years left in him, unless, yes, I know, unless he gets injured, knock on wood. So he’s travelling most of the year and when he’s home he’s in practices, watching tape, doing interviews, full Captain mode, no late nights, only boring food, you know the drill. Is that, like — do you want to be around for that?”

“Watch yourself,” Ilya says. It is almost a growl. “I knew you were an idiot but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“Jesus! I’m not saying, like, get divorced or anything, just that — you could go anywhere, you know. You don’t have to stay in Ottawa waiting for him to be done. He would understand. You could do something else.”

“Would you live apart from Jackie so long?” Ilya asks.

“Maybe,” Pike says. “We almost did. She wanted to stay in Montreal with the kids, at first. She did, for a few months, before I got settled in Seattle.”

Ilya will be the first to admit he does not keep up with Pike’s personal life as closely as Shane does, and this is news to him.

“Why didn’t she? Stay, I mean?”

“When you have kids — well, it’s like, the job is hard enough, being away so much, so when you do see them, you realize all the things you’ve been missing, like Jesus, when did you learn to count to 10, or read, or whatever. I just lost so much time with them. Amber never remembered who I was. So we just decided — well, that they would come with me. It was just — just so shitty, all around.”

“You think I would not miss my husband?”

“Of course you would. But Christ, haven’t you been together since you were, like, teenagers? There are rookies younger than your relationship. I think you would survive. If you wanted to, you know, go work for a team somewhere. Anyone would want you. Boston, probably, or, I don’t know, Vancouver isn’t that cold in the winter. You don’t have kids yet, or maybe never, whatever. You have the freedom.”

“Why are you doing this,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

“Cause Shane is only happy if you’re happy,” Pike says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. "And anyway, I so do fucking know you.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately.”

They sit in silence a few seconds, and Ilya lets the sound of first drops of rain wash over him, little fingers tapping against the roof. Anya sighs and Ilya reaches down to pet her.

“Well, what are you doing in your retirement that’s so fucking exciting?” he finally says.

“I’m spending time with my kids, man,” Pike says. “I think I’ve earned it. I’m, like, making supper and helping them with their homework. I’m coaching Ruby and Jade’s team. And Jackie is going back to school in September. She always wanted to finish her nursing degree, and we finally have the time.”

“She will make a better nurse than you are a hockey player,” Ilya says.

“Hey! Fuck off. Jackie will be a great nurse.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “she will.”

“Well, I gotta go. I think there’s an underground MMA fighting ring happening in my kitchen right now,” Pike says. “Tell Shane I’ll call him later.”

“It was, uh, not terrible, talking to you,” says Ilya. Pike laughs.

“I’ll take it. See ya, Rozanov.” The line goes dead and Ilya lets the phone fall to the table.

—

There have been other opportunities. Quietly, a few teams beyond the Centaurs have reached out to his agent, not to offer him a place on their teams but rather so he can work for them. Winnipeg, Anaheim, Pittsburgh, University of Toronto, some major junior and NCAA teams. He is a hot commodity, his agent says, and he could negotiate any terms, any salary. For now, his agent doesn’t say. While the memory of your exploits is still fresh.

Even Svetlana, now some kind of data analyst for the Raiders, has unofficially offered to give his name for any position he wants. He could work with the scouts, or the development team, maybe in their offensive program, in Boston. All he has to do is say the word.

Privately, he doesn’t know if he could bear it, being back in that saltwater city so different from the friendly sterility of Ottawa. Boston gave him everything he wanted and more — he especially doesn’t know if he could handle how it’s changed since he’s lived there. He used to consider it home but he knows he never will again.

Svetlana has been trying to speak to Ilya for two weeks. He ignores her calls and texts, unwilling or unable to hear her questions or give her answers. Today, though, he picks up on the first ring, and she swears in surprise when he answers. Even if she is angry, it is nice to speak to someone in Russian, for once. It doesn’t happen often anymore, aside from some chirps on the ice he’d rather not repeat — outside of this most of the Russians in the league keep their distance.

“So the asshole is alive,” Svetlana says. “And what does he have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry, Svetka,” Ilya says. “Please forgive me.”

The thing about Svetlana is that they know each other better than probably anybody, even Shane, even themselves.

“Done with your self-pitying bullshit?”

Inside and out, and inside again. Even the worst, grimiest parts.

“No,” Ilya says, honestly. He is sitting on his couch watching the storm outside. “Probably not.”

“Poor baby,” she says in a mocking tone. “You’re forgiven, but — come on. You’re better than this.”

“Better than what? A career-ending injury? Better than hockey? It’s been my whole life, my whole life.”

“Cry about it, why don’t you. Boohoo, my name is Ilya Rozanov, I’m a generational talent second only to my fucking extremely good-looking husband, I’m a beautiful underwear model, every club in the league wants me to work for them, my life is so hard.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya says. “You’re a bitch. Anything else?”

“Also, I’m rich,” Sveta says. She sounds quite satisfied with herself, and Ilya can just see the sparkle in her eyes when she speaks.

Svetlana, too, has had to give up her Russian citizenship, but she can still visit, and her family has not yet fully disowned her. He loves her so much and he hates her for this, too. Ilya cannot even visit his mother’s grave.

“I’m not ungrateful,” Ilya says. “I just — I have — there is nothing else.”

“There is everything,” she says. “Everything, Ilyushka. Don’t forget yourself.”

—

“Who were you talking to earlier?” comes Shane’s voice from behind Ilya. “I heard your voice.”

Ilya startles.

“Scam caller,” he says as Shane throws himself down onto the couch, disrupting the poor dog’s fifth nap of the day. He is shirtless and sweating in a way that is frankly obscene, black hair veined with grey plastered to his head and his cheeks flushed and rosy. Ilya can feel the heat from his body and smell the masculine funk of his skin.

“Sounded serious,” Shane says.

“We won the lottery,” Ilya says. “I didn’t have my credit card on me so I gave them yours.”

“Good thinking.”

Ilya runs a light hand over Shane’s cooling abdomen and smiles when he feels it flex. Here is something few people know about his husband: in the summer, where Ilya turns red and burns in the sun, Shane’s skin grows darker, brown freckles colouring his nose, shoulders and chest like a delicious little dusting of cocoa.

“I took some shrimp out for supper,” Ilya says. His fingers continue their lazy path, the most intimate contact they’ve had in days. “I’ll make that pasta we like.”

Shane hums.

“Sounds good.”

They stay like this for long, slow minutes, enjoying the proximity.

“It was Pike, actually,” says Ilya, finally. “And Marly. And Sveta."

“Crazy lineup for a conference call,” Shane says. He raises an eyebrow. “Hayden? Really?”

“A nightmare.”

“What did they want?”

Ilya sighs. “Same thing everyone wants. But I don’t know what to tell them.”

“You don’t have to decide for the rest of your life,” Shane says. “You can just, maybe, try out a year. And if you don’t like it, then we try something else.”

“With the Centaurs,” Ilya clarifies.

“Anywhere,” Shane whispers. He grabs Ilya’s hand and tangles their fingers together.

“I thought—”

“My contract doesn’t have a no-trade clause,” Shane says. “I insisted. And they agreed. They couldn’t risk me not signing. Because, well, they owe us.”

Ilya laughs. “That’s what Marly said, too.”

“Smart man,” Shane says.

“Truer words have been spoken.”

“One year,” says Shane. He kisses Ilya’s hand.

Rain. Wind. A flash of lightning, thunder.

“Okay,” Ilya says. Soft breath. “One year. Call Wiebe.”

Shane sits up straight. “Really? Because I have some thoughts on our second line, I think we should try it out with Luca, Ravs and Smithy, I’ve been looking at the tape and running some numbers and —”

“Shane, Shane,” Ilya says. “Call first.”

“Right, yes, okay, on it,” Shane says, fumbling for his phone.

What is the future they fought for? That hard-won battle whose casualties Ilya would rather not tally? And what comes after that future?

One thing Ilya knows: he cannot go without Shane for long. The intricacies of this man have consumed him, like they’ve swallowed each other up and live within the other’s body and have forever, even before they knew each other. Can you remember a person you’ve never met?

If the future isn’t hockey it will be this. Quiet afternoons watching the rain fall, and trying new protein powders together to find one that doesn’t taste like chalk, and losing to Yuna at Scrabble, and Shane folding the towels while Ilya pairs the socks, and the shrimp pasta they like, and a joint bank account, and a fiercely competitive Duolingo streak, and Shane knowing the name of Ilya’s childhood best friend, and Ilya knowing Shane’s.

Summers by the lake and winters by the river. Or maybe by the ocean, or somewhere else entirely, and he will buy new magnets and get more boring books for Shane and send corny postcards to Pike’s kids.

Or maybe just — here. He’s never seen the cottage in winter. He wonders if it’s nice.