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“Hey, Roz, is this you?” Connors asks, shoving his phone into Ilya’s face.
That’s how it starts. Like many great and terrible things in Ilya Rozanov’s life, this moment too will be accompanied by the sound of exercise machines and the smell of sweaty men. The workout room of the Boston Raiders is mostly full; he could count more than half of them in here.
And Connors is showing him a photo from a gay club.
Ilya recognizes his own blond curls turned blue under the club’s lights as well as the shirt he’s wearing, looking more purple than pink in the photo. He doesn’t really recall the guy he’s grinding against or the one behind him, but he’s danced the night away and he can’t remember every meaningless detail.
He’s not the focus of the picture; none of the people in the picture are very recognizable, their faces blurry or turned away. He could deny, but what’s the point of it?
He’s tired of denying.
“Yes. Was the Scott Hunter Night,” he shrugs. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s faking nonchalance. No one except the fitness bracelet currently strapped to his wrist can tell how fast his heart is beating.
Of course it’s from the Scott Hunter Night. The photo is part of a photo dump made by the club to commemorate their summer and it’s been reposted by Scott Hunter. Ilya didn’t even know the man was active on social media at all.
“You went?” St. Simon moves closer to look over Ilya’s shoulder. “I know he sent the invite to just about everyone, but I didn’t know anyone actually went.”
He doesn’t say it meanly. It’s not with disgust, just mild curiosity. It only stings a little.
“Was a good party.”
Connors takes his phone back and puts it away.
“I don’t know, good for Hunter or whatever,” says Koch, climbing down from a weight machine. He is one of the newest transfers and he has only barely learned what room Ilya runs here. “But a gay bar is a step too far. I don’t want any guys hitting on me.”
Ilya gives him a once-over. “You worry too much. Queer doesn’t mean desperate.”
There’s laughter at Koch’s expense, but it dies down when St. Simon clears his throat. “Are you supposed to use that word?”
“Yeah, Cap,” someone else calls out. “Didn’t you make us watch Hunter’s speech?”
He kind of had. By posting a clip of it to the team’s group chat for all the ones who haven’t seen or attended the awards; with the accompanying message being “homework”. He’s kind of touched they actually took something from it.
“This one’s not a bad word,” he sighs. He’s still sitting on an elliptical, which feels silly, but it gives him a vantage view of the room. “It’s umbrella term. It’s been, how you say, reclaimed.”
“Yeah, but…”
Ilya claps his hands. He rubs them together as he looks around at the faces turned towards him. Alright. Okay. He’s doing this. If he thinks about it, there could be worse places to come out than in a room full of people ready to scold him for a perceived use of a slur.
“Let’s get this straight. I’m not,” he says.
There’s a lone chuckle in the workout room, but mostly they just stare at him warily. Bemused. Baffled. Except Marly. Cliff Marlow quietly moves to stand beside Ilya’s elliptical, arms crossed, muscles on display.
As if Ilya Rozanov needed a bodyguard.
He’s a little touched by it anyway.
“C’mon. I know you have about dozen concussions all put together, but I used a pun. Completely wasted on you,” Ilya groans, throwing his head back theatrically.
“Lowest form of wit,” Connors points out with a small smirk.
“I play to my audience,” Ilya shakes his head. “So. I can use the wod because I’m under the umbrella, yes? End of speech, get back to work.”
St. Simon claps his shoulder and actually walks back to a machine. Some of the guys are also returning to their workouts. The atmosphere is awkward. Tense. A few people are still staring at him, expecting a follow-up, In some corners, whispers rise.
“Wait,” he says. He should tell them to keep this to themselves, because the threat of his motherland still hangs over him. But he knows his reputation. No one would believe them anyway. Instead, he says: “If you want to call me a cocksucker when you talk about this, just know I’m proud of my skill. Is not an offer. I know what you consider a good enough shower and I feel sorry for your girlfriends.”
That startles enough laughs out of them for Ilya to feel satisfied. So he climbs off the elliptical and heads for the locker room.
Marly follows at his heels.
“If anyone calls you that, I’ll make them suck their own,” he says.
Ilya isn’t sure that’s as much of a threat as Marly thinks it is, but he appreciates the offer anyway. Out loud he says: “I can beat them up myself.”
“Yeah. But I want points for the assist.”
Ilya can’t help it. He grins, actually elated for a moment.
***
“What are people saying about me?” Ilya asks Cliff Marlow a few days later. They are the only two left in the locker room. Ilya is usually the last one to arrive, but compensates for it by being the last one to leave. And today he’s offered to drive Marly home.
“About hockey or about you sucking dick?” Marly asks casually, in between pulling on street clothes, and the crass words feel like love language.
“Both.”
Marly finishes pulling on his hoodie and grabs his bag. “Hockey talk is hopeful. The other thing… To be honest, Rozy, most guys think you are fucking around. Messing with them.”
Ilya shakes his head. He knows he can be very unserious, but: “That would be very stupid thing to joke about.”
Halfway out of the locker room already, Marly nods. “You’re stupid but not that kind of stupid.” Then he asks: “But how serious is it?”
For a moment, Ilya thinks Marly can see into his soul. That he is asking about the depth of love Ilya holds for Shane Hollander’s freckles and heart. How much does he yearn to return to the cottage? How badly does he want to transfer to a Canadian team? How much does he cherish not just his boyfriend but the love his boyfriend’s parents have extended to him?
But no. Marly is not that deep.
“Are you asking me whether I am terminally bisexual?”
“I guess,” Marly cackles. “Are you just an equal opportunity slut or can you see yourself marrying some cute bartender guy and adopting a bunch of Russian orphans?”
“They couldn’t be Russian,” Ilya pretends it doesn’t tear through his chest like a bullet. Russia wouldn’t release its citizens to be adopted by a queer couple, but he has no capacity to explain geopolitics to Cliff Marlow. “And he wouldn’t be a bartender. But yes, I will marry a man and we will adopt two to four children.”
“You sound very sure about that,” Marly smirks. They are heading for Ilya’s car now, walking side by side, equipment bags knocking against their hips.
Ilya nods. He could have used different wording, a different tense. At this point, however, there is no ‘maybe’ and no ‘would’ in his future. He wants to express a higher degree of certainty still: ‘After I’ll have moved to Ottawa, Shane Hollander and I are going to get married. He is the father of my future adopted babies.’ But English is a stupid language and Ilya doesn’t want to get tangled in its tenses.
“There’ll be dogs, too,” he says instead. “Two or five, depending on who wins the argument. And maybe a cat, if he is lucky.” If Shane wanted, Ilya would get him a whole petting zoo of animals. Except that Shane is a neat freak and a petting zoo would probably kill him. Which is a shame, really, because Shane petting mini-goats would be a lovely sight.
“I have a question,” Marly says when they are sitting in the car and Ilya is pulling out of his parking spot.
Ilya holds his breath. Surely, it’ll happen now. Marly will ask about the man from Ilya’s plans and Ilya will be forced to lie.
But what Marly asks is: “Have you hooked up with Scott Hunter?”
“Don’t be gross,” Ilya scrunches up his nose.
Hunter is hot, but Ilya isn’t going to tell Marly that. And anyway, Hunter might be hot, but he is nowhere near Shane Hollander’s level of hotness.
Or hockey skills.
***
“You’re going to be a good captain,” Ilya tells Marly after watching him with the rookies for a few hours. Marly doesn’t have much patience, but he has a gift: he makes the young ones feel safe and cared for in a rough but loving way. His constructive criticism takes the form of gentle ribbing, but he also doesn’t let the boys whine and complain too much. He’s made Ilya feel right at home in Boston, all those years ago, and Ilya is quite certain that the only reason they’ve made Ilya captain over Marly is the star power of his name.
“You okay, Roz?” Marly frowns now, hand jerking at his side as if he wanted to check his captain for fever.
They are standing off the ice, observing the rooks collect loose pucks and training obstacles. It’s less a part of the actual routine and more gentle hazing.
Ilya shrugs. “I’m free agent at the end of the season.”
“And?” Marly’s eyes suddenly widen. “You’re not fucking retiring!”
“Not yet.” Ilya wants to play hockey for as long as hockey will have him and as long as his body will allow. It’s one of the two, maybe three, things he is actually good at.
“Then what the fuck?”
He crosses his arms as he watches the rooks. Fresh faces, so young. They are less than a decade younger than him, closer to a half, and yet they look like children to him. Young and stupid. The same age he and Hollander were when they let themselves be irresponsible; no wonder it ended up here, Ilya’s life turning upside down. For the better, yes, but irreversibly. Loving Shane Hollander is now a basic function of his body, like breathing. To remove it would destroy him.
“You know the guy I will marry?”
“I thought he was hypothetical.”
“Big word for you, Marly.”
“Imaginary. Made up. You know, a girlfriend in Canada except with a dick.”
Ilya snorts. Then he chuckles. Two minutes later, he is still laughing, down on the floor, a stitch in his side, unable to catch his breath. He knows the rookies must be staring, because Marly shouts at them to mind their own business before he turns to Ilya.
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“No, no,” Ilya gasps. He knows he’s laughing mostly because his brain has just short-circuited. Or because he’s been so on edge lately. “Is not. Is just…” He struggles for a moment, finally catches his breath. “He is. He is Canadian.”
“Fuck off,” Marly stares at him.
“Yes. A Canadian. I have a boyfriend in Canada and I’m going to move there for him.”
Marly is speechless.
He doesn’t get to recover, because the rookies have just finished and Ilya’s not interested in discussing his love life in front of them.
***
“Which part of Canada?” Marly asks out of nowhere on a plane.
“I think Toronto’s in Ontario,” Ilya replies, because Toronto’s where they are currently headed, and he is mindlessly tapping through his tablet’s offer of shows and movies. “But don’t quote me on that.”
“No, I mean—” Marly suddenly remembers he is the only one who knows. He lowers his voice. “You know.”
Ilya shrugs. “Not Montreál, if that makes you feel better.”
“Obviously,” Marly snorts. “Wouldn’t it be easier the other way? He moves to Boston?”
Ilya shakes his head. “His work won’t allow.”
“What is he, the president of Canada?”
“I don’t think they have one.” Ilya thinks through what he can say without revealing too much. “Is just that he’s under contract with his job and it’d be difficult for him. It’s easier if I move.”
For more reasons than one. Shane hates to think about it, but retirement is closer than they pretend. It’ll be easier to start a life after hockey if Ilya is already in Canada. In Ottawa, where Shane’s parents are as well. It’ll be actually nice.
“Where?”
“Depends which team’ll have me,” Ilya shrugs. “But first choice is Ottawa.”
“Ottawa? Seriously?” Marly struggles to control his volume, though to his credit, he is trying. “What’s the mouth on that guy?”
Shane would probably have a love-hate relationship with the way Marly says it, but Ilya appreciates it. He likes that Marly acknowledges Ilya has sex with a guy. Politely skirting around the topic would be so much worse. Ilya doesn’t want it to be something shameful.
“Let me tell you,” he laughs, “if riding dick was an Olympic sport, he’d be winning gold in all disciplines.”
Marly howls with laughter and heads turn their way, prompting Ilya to force his teammates into a series of road games.
Life is very good in that moment.
***
“When are you telling the rest of the team?” Marly asks, crammed all the way into Ilya’s personal space in a corner booth of a club.
They are celebrating their latest win and Ilya should probably be out there on the floor, but they are playing Montreál in two days and he was having a really interesting text conversation with Shane before Marly interrupted.
“I already came out to them, you forget?” he replies distractedly.
“I didn’t forget. Top three worst of your speeches,” Marly rolls his eyes. “When are you telling the team you’re leaving us for some guy?”
“Sounding like a bitter ex,” Ilya throws his arm around Marly’s shoulders and pulls him close a little roughly. “I don’t know. Maybe before the playoffs.”
They’ve been playing really well. Ilya’s having probably the best season of his career, he’s truly at the top of his game. The playoffs are practically a certainty.
“And when am I meeting him?”
“Ugh.” In two days. Not for the first time. “Maybe never.”
“Dude. I’m your fucking best man at that wedding.”
“Who says?”
“Me. The bro code. Law of the land.”
“Which I’m leaving.”
“I’m sure Canadians understand bro code, too. Aren’t they famously polite? Your loverboy would break up with you if he knew how you’re treating me.”
“Maybe. He’s very loyal,” Ilya smiles softly.
“What else?” Marly latches on. “What is he like? You’re so secretive about him I’m still not sure the guy is really real.”
Ilya thinks for a moment. It’s not the first time that he is sitting in a club, surrounded by bodies and pounding music, and thinking about Shane Hollander. Sometimes he feels like thinking about Shane Hollander is his main source of entertainment, his favorite hobby. “He is steady,” he says slowly, considering what he can say about his boyfriend without revealing his identity. He can’t say he’s the best hockey player and he probably shouldn’t mention his freckles either. “Hardworking. I think he loves his job a little more than he loves me, but only a little bit. Quietly funny. A little awkward, but in a good way, like, he either overthinks everything he does or doesn’t think about it at all, is very cute.” He thinks about Shane standing at the grill, making burgers for several people because the recipe told him to. “And probably one of the smartest people I know.”
Marly stares at him for several beats. Ilya’s arm is still around his shoulders, holding him close. “He’s really not imaginary.”
“No. No, it feels unreal sometimes, but he’s very much a living person.”
“Is he old?” Marly frowns. “He sounds old.”
Ilya laughs. “Older than me, yeah.”
***
Whoever has created the season’s schedule must have a special vendetta against Ilya specifically. Because they’re in Ottawa close enough to Yuna Hollander’s birthday for it to be relevant, but their travel itinerary barely allows him to leave the hotel, let alone visit the Hollanders for proper dinner. And because the hockey gods hate him, truly, they aren’t even going to Montreál straight away, so he can’t leave Yuna’s gift with Shane either.
And he really wants to give her a gift. She’s been lovely to him since she found out about him and Shane and Ilya values it more than he can express in words.
So he’s standing in the hotel parking lot, talking to David Hollander, handing him a gift bag. Fortunately, David isn’t a very recognisable face. He’s a wonderful man, but he has the face of an accountant and few people are all that familiar with him. If it was Yuna, that would be a different story. People who know puck, at least those who pay any attention to Montreál, could notice her. But her husband is just a regular guy.
If regular guys were kind fathers and nice to their son’s boyfriends, enough so to come run an errand on their behalf. David is that sort of a man.
He hugs Ilya, too, startling him a little. Ilya has to pretend something fell into his eye.
He’s still a little off-balance when he enters the elevator a couple of minutes later and runs into Marly.
Who whistles. “You weren’t lying about him being old.”
Ilya blinks. “No.”
“I didn’t think an accountant guy was your type, but that is how you described him,” Marly ponders as the elevator starts moving. “Is this why I don’t get to meet him? Are you embarrassed that you like a Daddy?”
“Fuck you.” Ilya shoves Marly’s shoulder, a little too roughly to be friendly. “Don’t talk about David like that. He’s, ugh. He’s family. And for the record, I wouldn’t be embarrassed.” David Hollander is still very handsome; it’s true that Shane only got half his looks from Yuna. He has gotten the best from both of his parents, in looks and in personality. “That’s just not my boyfriend.”
Marly shoves him back, much lighter. “Don’t get pissy with me. It’s your fault all I know is that he’s old, boring and loves your dick.”
“He’s not out, okay?” Ilya snaps. “He’s not out and he’d freak out if he knew how much I’m talking about him. So shut up about it, okay?”
That startles Marly a little. For a while, he just looks at Ilya, considering. “Sorry,” he mutters when the elevators comes to a halt and lets them out. “I’ll shut up.”
Ilya feels bad, because Marly’s actually very supportive and probably Ilya’s best friend, so he punches his arm again and says: “You’ll meet him at the wedding, yes? You are my best man.”
***
He tells the Raiders the USA is not big enough for him and Scott Hunter both. He tells them he wants to retire in Canada, for personal reasons. He tells them he is sorry.
He receives many hugs and as many friendly punches.
He cries himself to sleep that night, equal parts overwhelmingly happy and devastatingly sad, which shouldn’t be possible, but it is, and his body feels too small to contain it all.
***
It’s roughly half an hour after his and Shane’s joint press conference, after they’ve just announced the Irina Foundation, that Marly calls him. Ilya’s alone in his car driving between the venue and a restaurant, so he picks up.
“No!” Marly yells. It’s disbelief, not disapproval.
“Yes,” Ilya says, because there’s no way of denying it. Marly is not that stupid.
And he’s in a hurry to go to lunch with his boyfriend and future in-laws, and then take his boyfriend home. He has no time to make up stories.
“You told me he was old!”
“I told you he was older.”
“By what? A few months?”
“By one.”
“Motherfucker.”
Ilya laughs. “You get it now? Why I had to move to Canada?”
“I’m still processing. I can’t believe you pulled Hollander, what the fuck.”
He takes a deep breath and represses his smile. “Is still a secret, okay? You can’t tell anyone.”
“Fuck, yeah, of course not. This would be— Jesus Fucking Christ, Roz. How did it even happen?”
“I’m hot and irresistible,” Ilya replies. “And he is… Shane Hollander.”
“Fuck. He is.”
“I love him, Marly.”
“Yeah, I could tell,” Marly sighs. “Oh, fuck. I’ve just—”
“No,” Ilya interrupts him before his friend can mention almost maiming the love of his life. “Let’s not talk about that, yes?”
“Fuck. How am I going to give you away at the altar when I—”
“Give me away?” Ilya snorts. “What happened to just being my best man?”
“That was before I knew it was Shane fucking Hollander! You’re marrying up. Like, way up! I think I should prepare a dowry or some shit.”
This, Ilya thinks, might be one of the best moments of his life. He wants to bottle this feeling and keep it at hand for the dark days. “If anyone is giving me away, it’ll be Sveta,” he says, even though in his fantasies, which he’s actually had, he and Shane walk down the aisle together. “But you are my best man, yes?”
“Yes, always. Man. You need to lock that down.”
“I know, I’m working on it. We probably won’t marry before retirement, but—”
“Yeah, no, I get that. Fuck.”
“Yes, I’ll do that too.”
Marly laughs. “Yeah, man, you’d better.”