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Ilya’s very good, very expensive publicists have drafted a statement to explain his move to Ottawa. It’s a good statement, too, perfectly crafted to soothe the ire of Boston fans while endearing him to his new team. He practices it in front of his mirror for hours, until it almost starts to sound like his own thoughts. Nothing in it is untrue. He has accomplished incredible things with Boston, and, as he reaches the midpoint of his career, he is looking for opportunities to develop the future of the league. Unfortunately, there is another, truer, truth, and when one reporter finally manages to make herself heard over the clamor at the press conference to ask him why, in the name of all that is holy, he would move to Ottawa, that is the truth that floats to the surface of his mind.
“I have very sexy Canadian boyfriend,” he tells the crowd, and thinks Fuck.
The room has gone silent. The journalists are mostly looking at him in shock, though he sees a few starting to smile, sure that this is another classic Ilya Rozanov joke.
“He is most important person in Canada,” Ilya clarifies. “Not only to me, but to many people. So he cannot leave and move to Boston, I must move to Ottawa for us to be together. Is very romantic, no?”
They’re whispering to each other now, and tapping furiously on their phones. A few people at the back of the room are laughing openly now.
“Mr. Rozanov,” someone says, and he realizes it’s the same woman who’d started this mess by asking the question, “do you seriously expect us to believe you’re dating Justin Trudeau?”
Ilya has no idea who Justin Trudeau is, which means he must be really, really awful at hockey. Maybe he ought to be insulted by whatever assumption the woman’s jumped to. But it’s such a convenient way out of this mess. He leans forward and winks.
“A gentleman never tells.”
..
When Shane gets to practice, uncharacteristically late after a car ahead of him got t-boned, he finds his teammates still in the locker room, clustered around a phone.
Hayden looks up. “Hey man,” he calls, “you see the news about Rozanov?”
“The Ottawa thing?” Shane asks, trying to sound disinterested.
Comeau laughs. “That’s old news, Hollzy. Guess you haven’t heard about his secret Canadian boyfriend yet!”
Shane can feel the blood rushing to his head as his world narrows to a pinprick. “His what?” he barely manages to croak out.
“He was definitely joking,” Mitty grumbles. Shane takes a deep breath. This is good. He can work with it being a joke.
Hayden, oblivious to Shane’s emotional journey, scoffs. “Why would he joke about that, though?”
“To throw us off our game,” Shane suggests weakly. Whatever shit Ilya’s started, he’s going to cling to the liferaft of laughing it off for as long as he can.
“Someone ought to complain,” Comeau says. “It’s not fair, is it?”
Shane feels the fear creeping back in. He tries to push it down. “I mean,” he says, wondering if his palms have always been this sweaty, “Scott Hunter—“
“Scott Hunter,” Hayden interrupts, “was not dating the Prime Minister of Canada. Comeau’s right, the political favors are gonna make it impossible for the rest of the league to compete.”
“Trudeau has not confirmed,” J.J. singsongs at Hayden.
“Silence is as good as a confirmation,” Hayden says confidently. He looks over at Shane. “Woah, buddy, are you okay?”
“I—yeah. I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in. Ilya Rozanov and Justin Trudeau, who would have ever thought?”